“We’re starting a detective agency!”

The absurdity of the assertion hit me like a slap in the face. Roughly the same time I got slapped in the face.

“Ow! No, we’re not starting a detective agency. And why’d you hit me?”

She responded with laughter only appropriate for the enemies of Flash Gordon, giving me a moment to look around.

The living room: rearranged with a desk, chair, and other furniture (from my bedroom!) into an impressionistic sketch of a film noir private eye’s office.

My cackling companion: wearing a pinstriped blue jacket and matching trousers (also mine) and sporting a fedora I didn’t recognize.

“Naturally, I’m the brilliant detective.”

“You know you’d need a license to-”

“Which is what assistants are for, assistant!”

“Besides, what do you know about private detective work?”

“You think I just sit here all day when you go to class?”

“Yeah?”

“I’ve been auditing a class in criminal justice.”

“I take the only such class here. You mean you’ve been watching Psych on TV.”

”... So?”