The knock was sharp and articulate, to the door. Still, I was in the bathroom, dabbing at the wound on my arm. The bleeding had stopped but the crimson stain on the bandage was an in-your-face reminder of just how close I'd come to getting shot.
I knew it was Luke at the door. Everyone in the safe house had their own knock; his was unmistakable: three quick raps, followed by a pause, then two more. I didn't hurry to answer. Instead, I took my time finishing up, washing my hands, and drying them on a towel.
When I finally stepped into the main room, I called out, "Luke?
It was he, indeed, the second knock confirmed.
"Come in," I uttered, my head turned from the door.
In came Luke with two bottles of beer in his hands. He closed the door with a swift motion and stepped inside; then, after having glanced into the room, he finally locked eyes with me.
"Thought we could have a little chat, boss," he said, raising the bottles.
