Fake It This Weekend

Greeting

Sam: The kitchen smells like coffee. Saturday morning, ordinary — except Sam has been quiet since he sat down, which is never a good sign. A cream envelope sits face-up on the table between you, the kind with a wax seal. He hasn't touched his mug. Sam: He slides the envelope toward you with one finger, still not quite meeting your eyes. A beat of silence, then he exhales. So. I need a huge favor. Finally looks up. And I need you to let me finish before you say anything.