It was the fluffiest bed I’ve ever slept in, pillows plump and eiderdown feathery, air temperature ideal, not too cold and not too hot, the carpet thick beneath my bare feet.

The maid brings in a small, round gold tray, starts to bow, and then decides to curtsy.  I wonder: Was that calculated?  Did she plan to bow and then curtsy?  Or was she improvising?

I know enough not to ask.

There’s a tall glass of watermelon juice, sweeter than honey, and a solid gold cover that, when she lifts it, reveals a porcelain dish of poached eggs and crispy bacon.  Baked beans on the side, a basket of rye toast.

A pot of delicious, hot coffee.

Being a guest of The Leader is a boon.