It was a drive-by assault.

I was in our bedroom, assessing Montez's trouble in Elmore Leonard's Mr. Paradise. I heard the carport door open and a deep masculine voice say "Hey".

Lyman failed to tell me that Jason, our younger boy, had called last night to say that he would be coming in this afternoon, on his way home to Baton Rouge after seeing the artist formerly known as Prince in Shreveport last night. He was accompanied by a young woman, Neysha.

What happened to Nicole, you ask? I don't ask. Jason is 29. His private life is just that.

He poured himself a glass of milk and ice-water for Neysha, exchanged pleasantries for a while, then asked "What's heatable?" Before I had time to answer, he had brought chips out of the pantry and found cucumbers in vinegar, pico de gallo and and a sauce I couldn't identify from the refrigerator. "This is good. What is it?" "Hold off a minute while I think if it's safe. Ah, that's remoulade sauce. They serve it in New Orleans with shrimp." "It's good with chips."

Luckily there was some of the squash dish left from the other day, and Girl had sent some butterbeans yesterday. I cooked a little pasta. The kids ate both. Not a menu I would have chosen.

Neysha picked up the dishes and put them in the sink and returned uneaten food to the refrigerator.

They spent a few more minutes socializing while Lyman packed a cooler with catfish, pork loin, and chicken tenders from the freezer.

They gave us hugs, and then were gone.