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Harry sat bolt upright in bed.

His breath was heavy; he was shivering. A thin sheen of sweat clung to his forehead, which he wiped away with the back of his hand.

Again, Harry thought.

He swung his feet to the floor and held his head in his hands. He’d had the dream again. The same dream. Four nights in a row.

At first it had been a blur — like most dreams, fading upon waking — but with each successive night, more of it returned, until now it was clear as mid-day.

In the dream, he was in court again — but this time neither as witness nor defendant. He was a process server, taking his orders from none other than his ex-wife, the judge.

“Harold,” she’d said, sauntering around her desk, summons envelope in hand, “this one will be difficult. You need to serve Mr. T. He’s wanted on charges of wearing too many chains.”

Harry had taken the summons and looked at her — his ex-wife — across the desk.

She leaned closer.
“It’ll be dangerous,” she’d said with a snap of her teeth, “but I know you’re all about… danger.”

She’d extended the envelope slowly, eyes locked on his.
“Serve this one and I promise… it’ll be worth your while,” she whispered.

Then she leaned in close enough for him to feel her breath against his ear.

“I pity the fool who doesn’t serve.”