The doorbell’s ringing. My phone’s ringing. It’s not quite seven in the morning, so I answer the phone first because I don’t have to get out of bed to do it.
It’s Ben. “Is your doorbell broken?” he wants to know.
“Doesn’t seem to be,” I say. “‘Cause somebody’s out there ringin’ it to beat the band and it’s still the middle of the night.”
“You need to get that birthday butt out of bed and let that poor bastard into your house. He’s freezing and he wants pancakes.”
I laugh. “Then he’s ringing the wrong doorbell. There’s no pancakes here that I know about.”
“Come on, let me in.”
“I’m pretty sure my birthday doesn’t start until like ten.”
“There’s not gonna be a birthday if we don’t get a move on.”
“Why, what are we doing?”
“It’s a surprise.” He starts up on the doorbell again. “Let.
