It was a banging on the door rather than a polite knock. Sam rolled over lifted his smartphone from the dresser and checked the time: 2:37 am.

The sound at the door was louder, sharper, more demanding.

“What the fuck?” he mumbled as he pulled on his sweatpants, a tee-shirt and slipped into his house shoes.


“I’m coming,” he shouted, “Hold your horses!”

Sam stumbled around the corner, flicked on the porch light, then stepped up to the front door to look through the peek-hole to see who was pounding on it at such an early hour. It was the police, in full riot gear.

He flicked the bolt and swung the door open. Sam was immediately swarmed, knocked to the ground and unceremoniously hand cuffed.

“Samuel Smith Evans?” a plain clothed detective asked.


“You’re under arrest.”

“For what?”

“A four-15. Disturbing the peace.”

“What? At this time in the morning?”

“We’re or we’re you not fist fighting an unknown subject in your dreams?”

“Yeah, but that was simply a bad dream.”

“I understand that, but still any act of violence is against the law, even if you simply dream it. Load him up fellas.”

The team of eight, surrounded Sam and quickly escorted him to the waiting van still idling at the sidewalk.

“Good job, guys,” the plain clothed office shouted after them.

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