I knew from the knock that it was the Deacons. I wanted to put on pants. “Just a second.”
I answered the door in boxers. It slid open to reveal blasters at the ready and a fill-in-the-blanks search warrant. I didn’t bother reading it. “Come on in.”
I wasn’t worried. I didn’t have any illicit materials, or even drugs, not that the Deacons give a crap about drugs. They’re looking for schismatics, blasphemers, apostates. My ex keeps informing on me, but the joke’s on her: lying’s a sin, and filing a false report will get you six months.