“He made us dress as Mormons,” Heath informed me, still seated on the floor but looking marginally less pale. “We rode bikes and everything, just to knock on people’s doors.” I bit back a laugh at that mental image. “What did you say? Do you have any clue what Mormon missionaries even say in those door-to-door pitches?” “No clue,” Royce replied with a grin. “Do you? No one actually lets them get the whole pitch out before slamming the door, so all we needed was the suit, bike, and a polite hello, to sell the act.
