I look at a bunch of photographs of the men, dressed in military garb or all black, guns slung over their shoulders, and black hoods with only their eyes visible. Many have beards poking from beneath their hoods. In every picture the landscape is beige, either from the sand or the buildings.

Had a group of these jihadists really snuck into the United States, then barged through the door of my father’s house, and kidnapped the President?

I wonder how I would have reacted when the men came in with their guns drawn. Would I have stepped in front of Ingrid, like Red and Marshall had shielded the President?

I like to think I would have, but you never know.

What I’m really curious about is how these pricks knew Sullivan was going to be at my wedding when I didn’t even know he was going to be there.

Who did Sullivan tell?

And who did they tell?

Somehow this information made its way into some very bad people’s hands.

And not just the day of.

This thing took some planning.

My brain starts to ache and I flip off the computer.

It is 3:34 a.m.

::::

The white snow glows gold under the full moon. Someone, probably Jorge, has shoveled a path to the street, and Murdock takes three gallops onto the concrete, then dives into the snow piled in Bonnie’s front yard.

Archie pitter-patters a couple feet onto the concrete, then stops and paws at the tall wall of white.

I laugh.

It must look like The Wall from Game of Thrones to him.

I pick him up and softly set him down atop the waist-high snow. He is light enough that he doesn’t break through the frozen top crust. He takes a small step then looks back over his little shoulder at me. His orange fur is even more pronounced against the whiteness of the snow, his green eyes full of wonder and a bit of doubt.

He takes another step, then a little jump.

He disappears into the snow.

Murdock starts whimpering, then goes into rescue mode, digging frantically for Archie. A moment later, Uncle Murdock lifts him out by the scruff of his neck.

Archie is completely white.

But smiling.

Murdock totes him off to where the snow isn’t quite so deep, and I look down at Lassie and say, “He seems to like the snow.”

Meow.

“Snow is stupid?”

Lassie has his back turned, facing the front door.

He’s sulking

“Dude, are you still mad?”

He ignores me.

“Come on, it couldn’t have been that great.”

He turns around.

Meow.

“The best sleep of your entire life? But, you sleep on Ingrid’s boobs all the time.”

Meow.

“That is very true. She does not have four.”

Meow.

“I have to make it up to you?”

Meow.

“A thousand jingle balls? You have like fifteen already.”

Meow.

“They have not all run out of jingles.”