“Room service!”
Eventually the call penetrates Shep’s dream, and he wrenches one eye open. The thudding on the door carries less ‘Sir, your breakfast’, and more ‘Help! Zombies!’ Either someone is desperate to drop off a tray of eggs, or the hotel’s burning down. He figures he’d better stumble to the door and ascertain which.
The blackout curtains are outlined by weak splashes of morning, but the room is still blue with dark. It takes him a second to find and wriggle into his undies, during which the pounding starts up anew. “Room service!”
“I didn’t order any room service,” he calls through the door.
“Room service.” Again.
“You have the wrong room.”
“I’d better not have the wrong room,” comes the waiter’s muffled voice. “Cuz I’m here to ask the guy in this one to marry me.”
Shep’s a
