The doomsday cult school of specificity

Imagine it's late afternoon, Sunday. You are curled beneath an afghan, still bloated from the fried fish you inhaled for lunch. You are sleeping heavily. Until your doorbell erupts. A young woman in a peasant top and floral pencil skirt is standing at your doorstep. She looks over her shoulder. A tall man wearing a black button-up oxford and a white tie nods from the sidewalk. He's leaning on an umbrella. She then looks you square in the eye and says,...