Allison watched the fluffy white flakes falling steadily. There was little else to see out the window from this angle, but she guessed that if she got up and looked out, the snowfall would be so thick she wouldn't see much further.

She wasn't in much of a position to get up anyway. She was slouched down in a reclining posture, cradled between a mound of blankets and the layer of pillows lining the space between the edge of Woody's bed and the wall. Her left arm was squashed under Sally's weight. Sam and Woody were both squished in on her other side, and they were all sitting the same way she was, their legs luxuriously resting propped up in front of them, their heads supported by the pillows and cushions that made up Sam's bed at night, as they stared out the window high up on the opposite wall.

Allison wasn't paying much attention to whatever they were talking about. Sam and Woody were engaged in some kind of discussion as to which book they should choose for reading aloud, she knew that much. She was enjoying the moment of total repose. Her muscles were nearly all still, her limbs buried in an oversized sweater and her feet protected in wooly socks. She couldn't remember when she'd last been able to zone out. For a few moments, she didn't realize Sally was asking her something. “What?” she asked.

“What's your favourite?” chirped Sally, unperturbed at having to repeat herself.

“My favourite what?” asked Allison.

“Your totally all time favourite Christmas memory,” said Sally.

“Hmm,” Allison crossed one leg over her other, staring over at her mismatched socks. Sally straightened her legs too, which were covered in slightly discoloured wool tights, and giggled as she wiggled her toes, her bright frog toe socks peaking out from where her tights cut off. Allison continued to watch the snow outside. “Ice skating at the sculpture garden.”

She glanced sideways. Sam was looking over at her, and when he caught her eye, he gave her a small secretive smile. She smiled back at him. It was new, for him. What occasion had they ever had for it before this year? Finally, through everything that had happened and despite or because of his ten years of experience now, every now and then he could be in on a secret. He could keep quiet in public about something he shouldn't know, and they didn't need to lock him in a death stare to make sure he wouldn't give the game away. He knew when to look neutral and what small little moments like this one could afford a bit of a smile.

Sally snuggled closer to her. It was a strange, somewhat comforting thing, how she found she could sometimes talk about her former life around Sally and Woody. She didn't give them a lot of geographically specific details, but a few memories could be shared and preserved in her own mind. They wouldn't repeat something like an ice skating memory at the sculpture garden, and if they did, they could easily be assumed to have misheard or misunderstood. The things they wanted to know were different than any of the dangerous things the adult world was listening for. And this strange in-between space they shared in the Taylor home, one in which their friends knew some things and accepted other unknowns, had been frightening at first but she now found it a little bit exhilarating. She glanced at Sally, who was still looking up at her, her eyebrows raised.

“My dad used to take me, every Christmas vacation,” said Allison. “Mom came too sometimes, but Dad made sure he did every year at least once. No matter what else happened around then, if he had to work or got called away for Christmas, we'd have that afternoon skating. We'd get cocoa after, and look at the lights and the sculptures.”

“That sounds nice,” murmured Sally.

“What about you?” asked Allison. “What's your favourite memory?”

“Getting the tree.”

Allison raised her eyebrows. “Getting the tree we got together? Last year?”

“Yeah,” said Sally with a grin. “And decorating it later. And running from the tickle monster.”

Allison chuckled.

“Why couldn't we get one this year?” asked Sally.

“We should be happy we're inside and out of the storm,” said Woody quickly.

Allison glanced sideways at him. She recognized sometimes in him something she thought she knew. Though she supposed she had always been a lot bossier with Sam. She could already bake cookies and do karate when he was born, after all. She sighed. “We can't. We're not supposed to be going out on that side of the river right now.”

“I know,” Sally said. “We'll probably have fun anyway. Do you know if we're going to see Santa?”

“Probably not,” said Woody.

“Not real Santa,” said Sally. “The one at the party.” She looked up at Allison now.

“Only if the storm dies down,” said Allison. Really, the storm was convenient. It would cover for the other things they would be missing. The feasting and presents they would partake in, the music and decorating that would have to be conserved another year, the phone calls and messages that would be lost. The snow was washing it all out, painting over the damages they were still trying to understand, and grounding them with soft edges. If it weren't for the storm, she might start to get that increasingly familiar feeling of being trapped, needing to get out and walk, go and do something away from Sam's and the Taylors', and especially, her mother's watch.

She felt slightly better about missing meeting up with Scott. He was assigned the Christmas Eve patrol, and she'd earlier bemoaned their mismatched schedules, and then felt guilty about the flicker of hurt on her mother's face. It wasn't that she wasn't happy to spend Christmas with her mother, brother, and their strangely exuberant adopted extended kin. It was just that all this time, all squished together in this house, she'd felt something heavy hanging over them. A worry she couldn't right their wrongs. A dangling question they hadn't quite resolved. And she'd come to realize the tension wasn't that she and her mother couldn't speak in front of the Taylors. It was the Taylors' presence that kept their unspoken questions at bay. She could sense another cataclysmic shift brewing under the plates of their carefully held together family unit. Things had shifted like this of course before, in a night of eruption. But each time she'd worried about where they would be when the dust settled, and what if this time they couldn't hold on?

“I don't mind if the storm stays,” said Sally, threading her arm through Allison's. “We're all in here, and we've got a fire, and we'll have fun.”

Woody aimed a kick across Sam and Allison, connecting with Sally's outstretched foot. Sally let out a yelp and pulled her foot back, but no one said anything about what she had said wrong. “Will you read this one?” asked Woody quickly, passing her the novel he and Sam had chosen. “Please?” he added.

“Charlie and the Chocolate Factory?” she asked. “Do you guys want to torture us with visions of chocolate? Couldn't we read about people who eat rice and potatoes all the time?”

“We're having a yummy dinner!” exclaimed Sally. “Mommy got out pickled beets!” She giggled as the boys made disgusted faces.

“Alright, we'll take turns,” said Allison, opening the book to the first page. As she began reading about the exploits of an extended family living in one room and subsisting on cabbage soup, she glanced outside again. The snow was battering the window, the wind whistling. A storm outside, a storm threatening within. Is this what she would remember? She read, and lost herself in the chocolatey dreamland of the story.

She heard the noise before she opened the door. Something going on in the main room. She was only mildly surprised to see the beautiful tree, filling up the tiny corners of the cabin with its lanky bows. She stepped further into the warm room to admire it, breathing in the scent.

“And you were worried the boys wouldn't get to have a normal Christmas, out here in the woods.” She turned and felt a shiver run up her spine as he stepped towards her. He was grinning and she smiled too, leaning her head lightly on his shoulder. A fire crackled and popped in the fireplace. Her skin felt warm. “It's beautiful,” she breathed. “They're going to love it.”

He chuckled softly and kissed her temple. “Wanna go call them in so we can start decorating? That is, if they can tear themselves away from their sleds.”

It was a little bit colder now. She shivered, pulling his arm across her shoulders. “Do we have to, just yet? We could enjoy the quiet for a little longer, couldn't we?”

She looked at him out of the corner of her eye, trying to turn a mischievous grin on him, but he looked serious, his jaw set. “It's later than you think,” he said quietly.

She glanced to look out the frosted window. Darkness had been circling for a while, but it didn't seem much later than she'd thought. There was a flash outside the window, a moment of gold red, and she wondered if those were handprints, temporarily marking the window amidst the swirling snow. She shivered again, and hugged her arms around herself. “Can't I wait to see if they come in on their own?” she asked. She turned. He had vanished. She looked around. The room was darker and colder, and her shivering arms seemed to have forgotten he was ever there, but she was certain he hadn't gone far. Into one of the other rooms, perhaps, or behind the enormous arms of that tree, but he wasn't out of earshot, no.

She would call the boys in. They should be together. She went to the door, and bracing herself, opened it. A gust of wind greeted her, blowing icy snowflakes into her face and hair. She tried to call for the boys, but her voice was lost in the wind. She pushed the door shut and stepped back into the room, catching her breath.

The fire had gone out. The room seemed to be getting colder by the second. And smaller. She hugged her arms around herself once more and looked for the door to the bedroom. It was gone. All that was left in the cabin was the tree, its branches touching all of the walls and brushing against the windows. It seemed to have grown past the ceiling, though she couldn't see where the trunk was leading when she looked up. One of the windows smashed, and the howling wind invaded the room even as the branches crowded outwards, through the windows to the cold air outside, entwining the tree further with the frame of the cabin.

The space between her and the branches was getting smaller and smaller. As they came close to her face, they seemed colder rather than warm as they had first seemed when she had planned to decorate it. She had a feeling soon she would be forced out of the room, and began searching for something warm to put on so she could brave the cold. As the branches began to encircle her, pushing her towards the wall, she pulled on her mother's old patched wool coat and taking one last breath, went out into the storm.

The dark skies and swirling snow were creating a frenzied coil of grey. She pulled her hood around her face and walked forward, hunched over in the cold, calling again for the kids. If she could find them, maybe they could figure out how to get home. “Jake!” she shouted, feeling the cold in her eyes and throat. “Eric!”

“Mom!” The voice surprised her, it was so close by. She went around the side of the snow bank. There he was, crouched and packing down the snow, his beard icy and his father's old jacket pulled up to his ears. He gave her a matter-of-fact look and continued his task, digging, mounding, and packing the snow.

“There you are, sweetie,” she said. “We should find the others and go home.”

“We are home,” he said, smoothing the snow wall. “This is where we're going to live.”

She surveyed the fort. It looked as though a small deer could knock it down. “You can't live here. This isn't home.”

“I'm building strong walls,” he said. “My family is safe. My children can grow up here.”

She reached for his arm, but he couldn't stop working. The tunnel was going deeper into the snow. “Please, come with me,” she said.

“I'll find you when it's ready,” he said, glancing up to smile fleetingly before turning back to the snow. “We'll make s'mores.”

She sighed silently in the blazing wind. “I'll find your brother.”

“Good luck,” he said.

She trudged forward. Glancing down, she noticed a pair of footprints in the snow. They were almost the same size as her own feet. She walked in them, trying not to fall. After a little while, she found herself following two sets, the first tracks she'd seen and a much smaller pair. Her heart racing, she stepped forward, searching for them. Now and then, she brushed away the branches that whipped at her eyes.

She heard the branches creaking overhead before she saw the figure climbing the tall tree. She shielded her eyes and looked up. “Mary!” she shouted. The girl climbing the tree was small and childlike but she knew it was her. “Get down from there! You'll fall!”

“It's alright,” came her voice, barely audible over the winds. “I've done this before.”

“No, it's too tall,” she countered. “The storm is too strong. Just come down here where it's safe!”

“I can't,” shouted the voice, fainter still. On the ground, she could only make out her bright scarf, dangling high in the branches. “Not yet. I'll find you when I do.”

A loud crack sounded and she whipped her head around, but it seemed to have come from another tree. The winds were pulling down branches all around them. “Please, don't go further!” she shouted. The strange child didn't answer. Perhaps she had gotten out of range.

She continued walking, trying to call out in the strangling wind. Now and then she thought she could hear children's voices, children's laughs, darting in and out among the trees, but she could only see flashes of red and gold. She tried to call their names, but they would get lost before they even hit the icy wind.

“Mom.” His voice. It must have been. She looked all around her, for the source of the whisper, but couldn't see anything but snow, branches, and whirling grey. The branches scratched at her on both sides and she closed her eyes as she pushed her way further, calling his name, listening and listening for the whisper again. Her voice seemed to be the wind now, hollering a wordless whistle, and the wind screamed her son's name, echoing off the trees. “Jake!” the sky called. She stumbled, no longer sure what direction she was walking. Her mother's coat was torn. Her feet sank further with each step. “Jake!”

“Gail?”

It took her a moment to realize that the sobs she heard were her own. Gail stared through a blur at the ceiling in silence for a moment before turning towards the doorway. Mary stood there, dimly silhouetted by the lantern she held in one hand. Her other hand clutched a blanket she'd draped over her shoulders. “Are you okay?” asked Mary in a quiet voice.

She couldn't answer her. Her voice was still lost in the vicious winds that stole all of their names. She took a shuddering breath, and then another.

“Do you want me to get Eric?” asked Mary.

“No,” was the only word she could choke out. She shuddered again under the mountain of blankets on her bed. She wasn't sure she was quite crying, but something had taken a hold of her and she couldn't stop. She was vaguely aware, in that detached sort of way we have when observing something that can't possibly be happening to us, of Mary crossing the room, balancing her lantern on the floor, and perching carefully on the edge of the bed. Mary's hand hesitantly came to rest on the part of the blankets that jutted out slightly, where Gail's arm was buried. Her hand seemed icy and hot at the same time, though of course she couldn't feel it through the blankets, really. The Princess and the Pea. She'd once loved that story.

Mary was silent, still, except for adjusting the blanket she'd wrapped around her shoulders, adjusting her seat on the bed. The heartbeat Gail could hear pounding must have been her own, she realized. She tried to breathe slowly, to pull herself together, to remind herself that collapse wasn't an option. But she was already buried, in so many quilts, and Mary, sinking into the blankets herself, looking at her with dark eyes in the small light, was like the dreamworld herself, caught in this brief waking moment.

Like the other strange waking moments this year – the night the soldiers came, the night the warehouse burned – the other rules were suspended. She found herself speaking a whisper in the impossible darkness. “Am I crazy?”

She could feel Mary listening, though she could barely see her. “Am I crazy to think he's alive? To hope it?” Her voice fractured over the fearsome syllables.

“No,” Mary whispered in the darkness. She paused long enough that she'd considered rather than answered automatically like everyone usually did.

“Do you think he's dead?” she whispered, clearer, confident that this was the time she could throw it out there, in this dreamy haze.

Mary hesitated for longer. Her voice faltered somewhat but became harder as she spoke. “No. No, I don't think so.” She paused again, adjusting her posture and blankets. “If the past gives us anything to go on, I'd think we shouldn't underestimate him.”

Gail pictured his face clearly for a moment, and like a tiny flicker, felt the warmth. But it was too hard to cling to for too long. After all, so many others who haunted her memories had been strong, unshakeable, and constant, burning bright, but now they whispered in the smoke. After the cabin, the fierce woods, the blinding snow, all she felt certain of right now was her own heartbeat and the figure sitting beside her. Perhaps Eric downstairs. Maybe others a few hundred yards out, but they were murkier. “Do you think the others are alive?”

Mary laughed shakily. “I hope so,” she said. She swiped at her face for a moment. “I try to imagine them, sometimes. But I can't imagine them out there. I can only seem to imagine them here. You know, I'll pretend I'm telling Heather about the scarf I tried to knit, or make a mental note to show Dale and Skylar the chart I made for the supply route stops.” She paused, making a slight face and putting a hand on her stomach, dropping her blanket shawl for a moment. “I don't want to see anything else around them, just them.”

Gail nodded. She wiped the back of her hand across her own face. “Storm's still pretty bad, huh?”

“Yeah. I looked out the hall window on my way up.” Mary glanced towards the bedroom window, though the storm raging outside was hidden by the blind. “It's awful. I keep thinking about how we probably won't see Stanley and Mimi tomorrow. Or Bill. He's on south river patrol. Stupid, huh? I see them all the time.”

“It's not stupid,” said Gail. “We'll make it – whatever it is.”

Mary nodded.

Gail pulled herself slightly upright under her mountain of blankets. Mary folded her arms across her stomach. The room was getting more solid. Gail could feel that they were contained inside, away from the winds, separate from the ghosts. Still, the dream world persisted just enough that she felt she should say what she was thinking.

“I've spent a lot of nights not knowing where he was, before,” said Gail quietly. “You'd think I'd get used to it. But you never really do, do you?” She glanced at Mary. “You know, you first get them and the worrying starts, and you think it won't always be like this. But no matter what, it always is.”

“I think I can imagine,” said Mary.

Gail shifted under her blankets, recalling a summer's night they'd passed in a similar but unspoken conversation. The nights and days after with so much chatter, but they returned to this unspoken scene now and then. “Mary, remember when Bonnie was killed, and the boys went into hiding?”

“Yeah. Can't ever forget.”

“You called me in Cedar Run.”

Mary nodded.

“I knew then, I should stop fighting it.”

“Stop fighting what?” Her tone of voice seemed torn between bemusement and bewilderment.

“That we were in this together.” For the first time since she'd woken, she smiled, though it was shaky, reminiscent of the waves of panic she remembered from her dream. “It's the hardest thing, getting attached. Knowing what the other person does is going to affect you. Letting it.”

“I think I know what you mean,” said Mary. She shifted slightly, adjusting her blanket shawl again, glancing downwards and then back at Gail, her gaze steady.

“Sometimes it's too much,” whispered Gail. “I think, who do I have to worry about today? It's not just Jake, you know. I worry, with all of you.”

“Hey, we haven't been arrested that many times,” said Mary, her voice light but cautious. She cleared her throat. “It'll be okay.”

Silence overtook them. They listened to the howling winds. This was where the silence always took them back. They knew these words that would bring it. It was a calmer silence though. Her heartbeat was steady now, but not pounding and crashing with the storm. Gail pulled one hand out from under the blankets to touch Mary's arm. It was cold but somehow comforting. “Are you alright downstairs? I think the bed in Jake's room probably has a better mattress.”

“No, we're good,” answered Mary. “Really. But thanks. Are you warm enough in here? We could set up a bed down by the fire.”

“I'm alright,” she said. It was silly, she knew, her in this big house, even before they had begun staying with her. She'd put her house on the list a few months ago but she'd been glad none of the would-be boarders had been placed here. The kids had understood, somehow, as they hadn't argued but had packed their bags and taken up residence in the living room. The three of them didn't waste much though. All three were out of the house a lot and when they were there, they mostly kept to the living room and kitchen, but at night she liked being in her own bed.

Mary glanced up at the ceiling. “Do you think it'll stop tomorrow?”

Gail considered the darkened window. “We've got food and lots of firewood. We'll be alright, for tomorrow and probably a few days after.”

Mary nodded, exhaling slowly. “Are you sure you're alright in here?”

Gail nodded. “I'm alright. You should probably try to sleep.” She smiled. “I'll let you know, if I need anything. You too, though.”

“Thanks,” said Mary. “Same.” Their dialogue, the one that always got them through sooner or later. Bracing herself, she got to her feet, hoisting the lantern with her. “See you in the morning.”

“Good night,” said Gail. She found herself chuckling all of a sudden. She heard Mary pause at the door.

“I just realized. It's past midnight,” said Gail. “Merry Christmas.”

Mary smiled, a flicker in the darkness below serious eyes. “Merry Christmas.”

Sam was the first to wake up. As per their usual custom, he tossed a pillow at Woody. “Morning!” he shouted. Woody mumbled something incoherent, sitting up and swinging his legs to the side of his bed. “Let's go downstairs and look!” suggested Sam.

Both boys pulled on an extra sweater and pair of socks before skidding out into hallway and down the stairs. In the living room, the big socks they'd each put out the night before looked very much as they had last night. A couple people in the family had put one or two things into them before bed, so that each was lumpy. Jimmy had helped Sam, telling everyone else to vacate the room when he'd helped bring in the gifts Sam had made. Jimmy had been teaching them how to carve little bits of wood into interesting shapes, out in the back shed some evenings. Allison had made one for their mother, and Sam could tell she was excited for Mom to see it. It had taken Allison the whole time, all the bits of time she could spare, and she'd made a sort of tiger for her. She told Sam the tiger was Mom's favourite animal at the zoo. He couldn't remember. All he remembered of zoos were the polar bear and the flamingo, his own favourites. Sam had found he had a natural talent for making the carvings, once he'd figured out how to use the knife properly. He'd made something small for each person.

“I think we should wait,” said Sam, thinking about how he most wanted to see everyone's faces as they uncovered his gifts. “Should we do something for Sally?”

“I think she knows about Santa,” shrugged Woody. “She remembers how it changed.”

“Let's play something,” suggested Sam. They were playing Hungry Hungry Hippos (with a few beads filling in for missing marbles) when Sally wandered in, rubbing one of her eyes. She was wearing an old sweater of her mother's, and it hung off her in a funny way. “Hey, want to be elves again?” asked Sam, noticing Sally eyeing the stockings. Elves was a game they had invented last year.

“Sure!” enthused Woody. “What should we do first?”

“Let's put something on Daddy!” exclaimed Sally.

They decided on a tea towel, folded to look like a ready-to-cook turkey using a folding and rolling technique Woody had learned from his cousin once. Sally was the one who would place it on the target. Sam was the best at playing Jenga, but Sally was still able to fit into all the best hiding places in the house, plus she moved around quickly and quietly, expertly avoiding all the creaky spots on the floor. As the boys watched in the door to the Taylor parents' bedroom, occasionally giving her encouraging gestures and warning signals, Sally darted across the floor, deposited the tea towel turkey on the wool cap Jimmy wore to sleep in, and tucked its turkey legs into the brim of his hat. They all held their breaths as Jimmy cleared his throat and mumbled something about Hawaii, but he continued to sleep.

Sally was nearly shaking with her suppressed giggles as she retreated back to where they were. “What else do we do as messy, mischief-making elves?” she asked when they ducked into the boys' room, out of earshot of the adults.

“Window writing?” asked Woody.

They weren't allowed to do it on the big living room window, but there was an almost as big window beside the back door that often steamed up enough. They spent the next little while drawing with their fingers, first leaving 'elf footprints' but then making designs. Eventually Woody and Sam started writing dirty words, which made them all double over with laughter as each new word one upped the last.

“You better hope that's not the first thing the parents see when they come downstairs.” It was Allison, staring at them from the foot of the stairs with a half warning, half laughing look on her face. She was already dressed. She had loved sleeping in, in the old days, but most days she was up before Sally, heading out to work, so it wasn't that surprising.

“We're just having a joke,” said Sam. “We'll wipe it off before they come down.”

Allison nodded. “Did you guys already look in the living room?”

“It looks the same,” shrugged Woody. “So we're playing elves. Do you have any ideas for what we should do next?”

“I liked when you made a cave for the bears,” said Allison.

“Ooh, cave!” agreed Sally. She raced upstairs to grab some of the teddy bears that had featured in their last year display.

“I'll get started rounding up the cushions,” said Woody, going into the living room. Sam was about to follow when he noticed Allison was putting on her coat and scarf. “Where are you going?” he asked.

“Just...going for a walk,” she said. “Don't worry.”

“Okay,” he said slowly, wanting to join his friends before they built the whole thing without him.

“See you soon,” said Allison, pulling on her mittens and opening the back door. A gust of wind blew snow through the opening as she went outside. He stared after her for a moment but was distracted by Sally running by, a collection of stuffed animals sliding out of her grip. “I couldn't leave out Mr. Muggles this time!” she announced. Sam picked up a stuffed tiger and ran after her.

They used the cushions to make a cave and since they were on a roll, they strung up some of the blankets from their bedrooms to create a series of interconnected tunnels and dens. Sally went around perching her animals in different locations. “I think Amadi and Gregory are going to get married,” she said.

“Amadi and Gregory aren't even the same kind of species,” said Woody, rolling his eyes. “Amadi is an orangutang and Gregory is a penguin. He's a bird.”

“Well, they're going to adopt Sasha,” she said, holding up the tiger. “And they'll go in here, and this is where you'll be safe,” she said, addressing the last part to the stuffed animals. She crawled then herself into the tent.

Sam and Woody soon were climbing inside the series of dens, exploring the tunnels they'd made from the inside. Woody and Sally argued over territory a few times, though they didn't mind if Sam wanted to share space with either of them. At one point the blanket roof by the TV stand collapsed on Woody and the others had to move in to rescue him. Sam laughed as he worked to rebuild alongside the Taylor siblings. “We could keep our food on the shelves, right here,” he said, pointing to the space that had once held their DVD collection. “This could be the mess hall. And we could move Hungry Hungry Hippos into the part over there, and have a game room.”

Sally scrambled out to gather up the things. Sam crawled further through the maze, smiling to himself. He wouldn't mind if they spent the day building. It was alright, being safe here.

“What's all this?” came a voice from outside. Jimmy didn't sound mad so much as playing along with them, and Sally was giggling, so it seemed safe to come out. Woody and Sam crawled out of either end of the network of blankets and cushions now taking up a large part of the living room floor.

“We made Winter Wonderland again!” said Woody. “It has a sunroom and a game room.”

Sam looked past Jimmy, who had scooped up Sally despite Woody's reminder that it was the one year anniversary of his Christmas back injury. Mom and Margaret had both come into the room too, wrapped in bathrobes and sweaters. Sam smiled at Mom, who returned his smile. “Good morning everyone,” she said.

“Ready to look at the stockings?” asked Margaret. Woody cheered and jumped to his feet. Sam began to stand up too. He noticed Mom looking around. “Allison up yet?” she asked.

Sam felt a weird feeling in his tummy as he answered, “She is. She went out.”

“Where?” asked Mom.

He shrugged. “She said for a walk.” He stepped over to take his mother's hand, like he had when he was younger. The look on her face was still different than when she'd first come into the room, but she smiled as they joined the Taylors near the stockings. She smiled again when he reached her sock and pulled out the small tree shape he had carved for her.

Mary tried to keep her eyes closed for as long as possible. She could hear the winds, still howling, but she could tell, squinting through her eyelids, that it was just light enough to be the beginning of morning. The room was still a stinging cold, and she rolled onto her side, sinking further into the space between Eric's hip and three pillows, the old foldaway mattress creaking. She leaned her face into the pillows, getting as far under the blankets as she could, willing the light to go away. It only lasted a few minutes. Eventually she had to pull herself out of the crowded cocoon, force herself to stand, and shivering in the shock of the palely lit living room, pull on her blanket shawl and trudge up the stairs.

On her way back down, she stopped to look out the window in the hall. The snow was still pelting against the glass, and she imagined it pelting against the ground, the rooftops and trees, through town and beyond. She didn't let herself think about the people beyond town, the ones who were lost somewhere out in the storm. She only let herself think for a fleeting moment on the Richmonds, out at their farm. She would certainly not be spending this day with them, and really, it shouldn't be a great loss. It wouldn't have been memorable for anyone.

When she came back downstairs, Eric was lighting the fire again. They'd been getting by on fires for the past few weeks. They'd been staying here almost as long. She began folding the many blankets they huddled under at night, and when he was finished building the fire, he helped her fold away the bed and replace the cushions. They barely spoke as they worked. This was routine now. She hated morning even more when she had to walk upstairs to the bathroom instead of down the hall, like at home, but it was a small issue. She sat on the couch, pulling a blanket over her lap, waiting for the room to warm up. He sat beside her, putting his arm around her and making a dramatic show of leaning his head on her shoulder. “Merry Christmas,” he whispered.

“Merry Christmas,” she echoed, turning her head sideways to kiss him before turning back to look at the fire.

They passed a while in silence. She lost track of how long it had been before Gail came into the room. She had apparently chosen to mark the occasion by staying in her pyjamas, rather than being dressed before arriving downstairs as she usually was. She wished them a merry Christmas too and they returned it. The embarrassed smile she sent in Mary's direction made Mary sure she remembered their hazy conversation in the middle of the night.

There was more quiet now. The traditional activities would have to be forgone, as all they had was a fire coming to life in the grate. Mary didn't know if they'd all been too tired to do anything like search for the old decorations or put up a tree, or if they'd avoided it on purpose. Trying to make things like last year, or other years, had filled her with a certain unease. She wondered if trying to get back to normal would mean having to admit to all the things that had happened in the past month. It was easier to ride out the cold mornings and warmer nights, for now. She wondered if she should feel sad.

Instead, she smiled faintly as they talked briefly about what to eat. There weren't many options, but Gail was of the opinion it would be okay to use some of the flour and try to make some kind of pancakes. They would try to make them on the fire, on the makeshift grill that had heated their scraps of food so often lately. Mary volunteered to mix it up, and dropped her blankets in favour of a less warm but more serviceable sweater.

When Mary came back into the living room, balancing a bowl of batter, Eric and Gail were both crouched by the fireplace, getting the grill ready and talking softly. For the first time that day, she thought of her father, and of the fancy breakfasts he and she had tried to make for themselves when she was young. Most of them were disasters, though she supposed she'd learned her instincts in the kitchen from their failures. And the sense of adventure she now needed while piecing together their food with the few supplies they'd saved. Dad had tried, when he could, to keep things going. She had tried too. She remembered her conversation with Gail and felt a strange pang of unease. She brought the bowl over to the fireplace, trying not to interrupt, but it seemed they were done talking.

They ate in silence, the three of them sitting on the couch, among the blankets. Afterwards, they congratulated each other on a good experiment, though the pancakes had been fairly flavourless. They sat a little while longer, though eventually, Mary felt silly being in pyjamas still, and took her clothes to the bathroom. Gail followed and Eric dressed last, and then they were all together in the living room again, gazing into the fire.

“I guess the bright side of being stuck in a snow storm is, everyone gets a well deserved day off,” said Gail.

They smiled back at her. No one mentioned it was supposed to be a day off anyway.

No one mentioned what they were missing for several hours. They played a few card games and one round of the ancient Star Wars board game that was sometimes unearthed when they were shut in. They went their separate ways to do a few chores. Mary took a nap while Eric and Gail looked for a place to hang the picture they'd brought from their apartment, the one gift that made up their spartan Christmas morning. It was almost noon by the time Eric, sinking back in the couch, said, “I guess Stanley's going to miss mocking me in the Santa suit.”

“He was looking forward to it,” said Mary with a smirk. She was now fixing a torn sleeve with an ugly but sturdy black thread.

“I'm sure you would have been great, honey,” said Gail, poking at the fire and adding another piece of wood. “But the kids'll understand.”

“It would've been fun I guess,” said Eric. He reached for Mary's hand. She smiled at him, but she was thinking about the Christmas party from last year.

“I hope everyone else is doing okay,” she said. “It feels weird not going back home. I mean, back to the bar. I've been open on Christmas so many years.”

Gail turned towards the couch. “You did throw a good party last year. We'll make next year's even better.”

Mary nodded slowly. “There were so many people. And you know, even the year before that...”

They were all silent for a moment. Contemplating that year that meant different things to each of them. Mary remembered the shock and despair, the panics at night and dreamscapes during the day. But it had also been her first Christmas with Eric, and she'd had some certainty of their small, private corner of the bleak world. And then, there'd been the others. “It wasn't really a banner year or anything,” she said quickly. “But we had us. Everyone who had nowhere to go came to the bar. Some people who were really lost, and...” She glanced at Eric briefly, wondering if he would recall the same thing she couldn't quite figure out how to say. “There wasn't much anyone could do, to help them, wasn't much we could offer. We didn't even have food to share. But I guess it was something, that we were all there. Still going. You know?”

Gail nodded. Eric seemed to be studying her fingers, intertwined with his. “I know,” Gail said.

They shared potatoes for lunch. The wind had begun to die down. Gail went out to gather snow to melt. “The sun's actually out,” she said when she came in. She seemed slightly more serene. “Want to come out and see?”

Moments later the three of them stood, clad in their hats and scarves and breathing in the light air. No one else had emerged from the houses nearby, and the street seemed calm under the pale blue sky. “Snow doesn't seem too deep,” said Gail. “It was just harsh while it lasted. We could try to go, still. If you're up for the walk.”

Eric wondered if anyone else would actually be going out in the snow. Mary just said she would like to.

They dressed carefully but carried only a few things with them. If anyone ventured out to Bailey's tonight, they wouldn't be getting any extra food. The snow wasn't deep enough that they couldn't walk, but they had to step high enough that it left them breathing hard. They took turns leading, tramping out a path for the others.

The town looked different today, coated so newly in a snow that had kept them in for Christmas. Mary usually averted her eyes as she passed the shell of the warehouse, but she glanced at it today. The snow made it seem muted. Though she knew it would melt soon enough and the blackened frame would show again, she smiled a small, triumphant smile.

It was theirs, she thought to herself as they walked, only speaking to check in with each other as they laboured through the drifts. Covered in snow and sleepily waiting as it was, it seemed more like their town, their place, than it had since the night of the raid. And on the other side of New Bern, the place the soldiers had taken her seemed farther away, separated from her by the snow and the calmness that was their place, here.

They were getting close to Spruce Lane. She could feel her heart pounding and was certain her cheeks were red but she smiled and squeezed Eric's hand. They saw Karl Spinnet shovelling outside the door to the former Cyber jolt, and waved. “Are you opening the bar?” he called.

“We'll be there. Anyone who wants to can join us,” said Mary. “Can't promise much else.”

“I'll tell the others,” he said. Several once-refugees lived in the building, converted to makeshift housing after J&R left the first time.

Once they reached the bar, Eric said “I should go next door and get on the radio. See if I can check on things.”

Mary led the way and Gail followed her inside. They began lighting a few lanterns. Mary glanced warily at the jukebox. They couldn't use the little emergency fuel they had for the generator so she would have to ignore it. She hung her coat and started to make a fire in the wood stove.

Gail took a seat at the bar nearby, glancing around for a moment before she said, “I think we should come back here.”

Mary raised her eyebrows in question. “I mean, after Christmas, after the snow dies down or we can borrow a sleigh to transport our stuff.”

“Come back here to stay?” asked Mary. She was confused. They hadn't discussed it a lot but she knew Gail was attached to the house. So attached they'd known they would have to stay there with her, once they'd agreed they needed to stick together right now. They'd been walking home from the bar in the dark still hours, pulling out the bed every night, and it had been fine. She'd tried to figure it out in words when she'd talked about it with Mimi once. She knew the reasons, and at random moments she thought to herself about the parents of missing milk carton children who never leave in case their child randomly wanders back to their house one day. She even remembered herself that tiny voice in the back of her mind that had cried, embarrassingly and disconsolately, the day she and her father had moved to Jericho, because her mother would never know where to find her should she suddenly decide she wanted to, even though she had been eleven and far too old to believe it would happen. She wrinkled her forehead and glanced at Gail. “Are you sure? We're totally fine, living at home with you. Eric and me, we're happy to.”

Gail shook her head. “We should be here.” She glanced upward. “The apartment is much easier to heat. You won't want to make this walk everyday soon enough, and it's safer here. Close to town hall, the radios, everything. In an emergency, this is where we should be.”

Mary nodded slowly, but she felt her throat strangely catching as she raised her eyebrows again. “Are you sure?” She hoped she could convey, in her expression, all the things that would keep Gail from wanting to leave her home, without breaking their unspoken agreement not to speak of them. “What about...all the things you wouldn't be able to bring? It'd be alright, you know.”

Gail glanced around the bar room. She stepped over and looked down at the dark jukebox. “It'll be alright. We'll have us. For three, it just makes sense.”

Eric came in a few moments later, his cheeks a flaming red, but his face in a grin. He carried the radio with him. “Got in touch with two of the outposts! They're fine. Bill and Monty had to dig themselves out of their shelter today, but they made it to Stanley and Mimi's.” He held out the radio. “You could call over there. I don't think anyone would complain.”

Mary took it from him, smiling. Gail smiled too. “Everyone's fine,” she said, half a question, half a reassurance.

They didn't mention the other names. Heather. Dale and Skylar. Russell. Jake. Names in their minds, but far from this softly blanketed, slowly waking place.

Eric shrugged. “We're here.”  

Darcy was first alerted to her eldest's return when she heard the children shouting.

“It's a tree! Look!”

“Let me see, let me see! Oh, Santa really did come!”

“It's not Santa, it's Allison, you idiot.”

“Ouch,” came Sally's voice, accompanied by a thud like someone jumping to the floor from a perch in the window. “Not the real North pole Santa, you know what I mean.”

Darcy followed the voices to the back door, which Woody had now flung open. Sally, Sam, and Jimmy and Margaret, who had followed her from the living room, crowded around what was indeed a real pine tree, snow melting on its boughs. Allison was pushing it through the door, and the boys and Sally had grabbed onto its other end, helping to drag it in. There was a lot of excited talk about finding a stand and getting the decorations, and Jimmy ran to get a runner to put on the carpet before anyone was allowed to pull the tree any further and get needles on the floor.

Darcy smiled briefly as Sam and Woody glanced over at her, but when Allison met her eyes, she couldn't quite keep her face from betraying the feelings that had been coursing through her the past few hours.

“Ali, will you help me reach the star on top this year?” Sally was asking.

Allison had noted her mother's expression, and nodded distractedly at Sally. “Yeah, let me put my hat and stuff by the fire.” Glancing briefly at Darcy, she pulled off her boots and walked down the hallway.

As she was sure her daughter had expected, Darcy followed. She waited while Allison removed her coat, hat, scarf and mittens, folding her arms carefully in front of her, breathing in. Finally, she asked, “Where did you go?”

Allison stared back, that hard to read look on her face. “I started out just wanting to go for a walk, but then I figured I could get a tree, maybe just a small one, and the kids would be jazzed no matter what else happened.”

“Just like that?” asked Darcy, her voice in a quiet, even tone. “You just go out in this, just like that?”

“It wasn't that bad, when I went out,” said Allison, her eyes now searching her mother's for understanding. “I figured the storm was dying down. I stayed close to town, places I knew I could find shelter if something started again.”

“Did you go past Fletcher's?” asked Darcy.

Allison glanced down, and glanced back at her, with an expression Darcy recognized all too well. The same she'd worn her whole life, when she'd wanted to assert herself. “It's the kids who aren't supposed to go there.”

“It's everyone.” Curiously, Darcy felt her voice breaking over this syllable. The things she had been thinking, wondering, worrying over and convincing herself weren't true all morning had sprung suddenly full formed into her mind. This wasn't the first time. Watching her sixteen-year-old daughter hold her face steady and call herself fine after shooting a woman. Watching her girl walk off to fight a small town's war, a gun over her shoulder like a drafted soldier. Listening to her seventeen-year-old describe training and patrolling like they were a summer babysitting job. At eighteen, trying to convince her to leave town when farmers got arrested and food supplies looted. Why, she wondered suddenly, feeling her throat catch, did she have a daughter who had to be separate from everyone? Why did they always have to? She could imagine the next words out of Allison's mouth, could nearly speak them with her.

“I can take care of myself.”

“I wish you would have told me,” Darcy said. “I don't like wondering where you've gone.”

“I'm sorry,” said Allison. They stared. It was like being on two sides of a canyon, close together, each wondering if the other was about to step forward, or step back as they always did, and preserve the fragile landscape.

Allison's eyes were remorseful and Darcy knew she was sorry for causing her worry. Her expression was stoic too, resigned, and somehow this made Darcy feel worse. “I know you can handle yourself,” she said. She felt the words rising. A voice shouted in a canyon, that could make an avalanche start. “But you are not your father.”

Allison's eyes flashed, and for a moment, Darcy was glad to have shattered her firm resolve. “I don't think I am him,” she said. “But I can do things myself. Things most of my friends couldn't. Most of the people here. How am I ever going to be as good as he is, at surviving, if I can't learn?”

Darcy wanted to grab onto her, to tell her that she was way too young to be following him. She'd wanted to many times before. But she remembered, with a visceral kind of clarity, a young Robert, only a few years older than Allison, already so confident, already so sharp, so risking and cautious. His had been a different time. She sometimes comforted herself with this thought. Until these moments where the Robert she had known, and the Allison she had known, and the Darcy she had known, were all gone and she wanted to step back and look properly but she never could fully see the people they were becoming now. “You need to stay safe so you can go on and do the things you're meant to do,” said Darcy, choosing her words slowly. “Be who you are meant to be.”

“Who?” asked Allison, her voice rising, her eyes a rare shining. “You are the one,” she said, taking a step, gesturing with her arms. “You're the one who said it was safe here!”

“I didn't say that,” said Darcy.

“You wanted to stay,” said Allison.

Darcy felt a kind of accusation in Allison's stare, but it was her turn to stare back, asserting herself. “I don't know what safe is anymore,” she said, feeling her voice stiffen. “But I know this is a good place for us.”

“I could keep us safe,” said Allison. “You, me and Sam. You know we could stay safe.”

“I know,” said Darcy. “We can. But there are other things too.” Allison's look dared her. Dared her like she had at eleven, at an impasse over a permission form. At fourteen, over a family reunion invitation. At sixteen, over a party in the Pines. “Not just that this is our home. Not just that your father will find us here,” Darcy said. “This is where our family lives, right now. It's not all safe, but it's enough for now.”

“Then why won't you trust me?” asked Allison. She looked less angry, more weary. Darcy could see her, in this expression, suddenly stretching out into a long hazy future, like a row of mirrors reflecting off each other. Defiant, at eighty, at eighteen. Her young body sank slowly into a chair, her posture closing.

“Why don't you trust me?” asked Darcy, her voice softening. Allison glanced at her, her face on the verge of crumbling. Darcy knew it was a rare window. She would have to say it. “To know you are capable of so much. That you aren't your father,” she tentatively sat beside Allison. “And that you're not me.”

Allison's look was surprised. “I don't know who I am,” she said. “I know I'm me, not you guys. I just don't know.”

For the first time, Darcy nearly smiled, but caught herself. “I wish you didn't have to worry so much.” She paused and glanced at the window. The storm was gone, for now. “And I wish I didn't have to worry so much. Why don't we both give ourselves a bit of room?”

Allison seemed to understand. She gave her a quick nod. The mighty mountain taking a small bow. Darcy reached for her hand. She smiled for real. “It really is nice. The tree.”

Allison looked serious again. Darcy lightly bumped her shoulder. “We can decorate it and have a nice Christmas.”

Allison half smiled, half smirked, but nodded. “Okay.”

The tree wasn't as big as last year's. The branches were much scragglier than any of the trees the Hawkins family had ever picked from the market. But it was pronounced “a beauty” by Jimmy, Sally, and Sam. After decorating it, the kids had insisted on putting their stockings, with the wood carvings, new scarves, and random household treasures replaced inside them, under the tree.

“It smells more like Christmas, doesn't it?” asked Darcy, sitting on the couch once more beside her daughter.

Allison nodded, wincing as Sally unceremoniously bounded over and flung herself into Allison's lap. “You're going to be way too big for that soon, little elf,” said Allison, teasingly chucking Sally's chin.

Darcy looked down at the wood carving she'd been holding since she'd sat down again. The tiger's silhouette, so carefully carved in tentative but purposeful lines, was unmistakeably from her daughter's hand.

“Could we go see the other Santa?” asked Sally, glancing back and forth between the adults.

Jimmy and Margaret shared a nervous look. Allison laughed. “She means the one at the Bailey's Christmas party.”

“I don't know if that's still on, honey,” said Margaret. “The Greens might've gotten snowed in too.”

“But the snow is stopping,” said Sam, chiming in from the window. “Maybe they went anyway.” He looked over at his mother. Darcy looked from him to Allison, who gave her a small smile.

Darcy glanced at Jimmy and Margaret, her eyebrows raised. Jimmy shrugged and Margaret gave a small nod. “Maybe we could go for a walk,” said Darcy. “We could go by the place and see if anyone's home.”

“What if no one's home?” asked Woody.

Darcy shrugged. “We'll come home and have a fine evening ourselves.”

Allison shrugged and gave her another smile. “Worth a shot.”

The sun seemed to have been out for a flicker of a moment before it began getting dark again. Eric allowed himself one sigh at the huge grey expanse overhead before opening the door and going back inside with his armful of firewood.

“I can't believe I'm missing his first Christmas,” Mary was saying. He glanced over at her. She was sitting in her favourite booth, leaning over the radio, a small smile on her face.

“You'll be here for his first New Year's,” came Mimi's slightly distorted voice on the other side of the line. “Please be here. I can't take another gathering of just the good old boys. I've heard enough stories from their glory days to write an encyclopedia on Jericho high school sports history.” From somewhere in the background, Stanley's muffled protest could be heard. “Well, I could. With multiple volumes,” countered Mimi.

Mary laughed and Eric chuckled as he caught her eye before going to put the firewood next to the stove.

“You know, I could give you some anecdotes,” said Mary. “Want to hear about the field hockey team's snowy death match with North Glade in '89? Or the time the track team got lost when we went to Ferris?”

Now Stanley could be heard laughing at Mimi's dramatic sound of exasperation.

“I can't stay on much longer,” Mary said, leaning back in her seat, her laughing smile turned to a quieter one. “But give him a hug and kiss from me. And hug everyone else.”

Eric opened the stove door to stick one of the logs into the flames. The place was starting to warm up, but he still felt a chill as he stood. He glanced around. “Mom?” he mouthed in Mary's direction. Mary smiled at him and pointed up.

He climbed the stairs, the creaks of certain steps making a familiar rhythm. He found his mother in the living room, pulling on an extra sweater. “I knew I'd left this here,” she said, with a kind of cheery tone to her voice he recognized.

“Are you cold? Can I get you anything else?” he asked.

She shook her head. “I'm alright.”

He smiled. It was her mantra. Then again, it was his. A few times this year, they'd been forced to admit otherwise. It had been excruciating, in the moments. The day they'd heard of the executions in Fort Collins, months after they'd happened, she'd shouted at him and then sobbed on his shoulder. The night they'd come home covered in soot, unable to get the image of the burning warehouse out of their heads, they'd sat wide eyed into the early morning. She'd held him in a vice grip the night they couldn't find Mary, Stanley, Skylar and the others. He didn't know what would have happened if anyone else had been there to see him fall apart. They'd had a screaming match once or twice, sudden like a rare lightning, leaving an impression in the sky after it was gone. They went back to alright sooner or later. He quickly went to get a sweater of his own. The bedroom seemed the same as they'd left it, though he supposed they'd been through here a few times since they'd been staying at his mother's. It was oddly still, and comforting in a similar but different way from how he'd felt being back in the house he'd grown up in.

He came back to find her studying the wall by the north window, where the picture they'd given her had once hung.

“I told you kids not to give me anything,” she said softly.

He shrugged. “Mary said you like it more than she ever did.” She had really said that Gail liked it, and might like to have it, and it wouldn't make a difference to them since they'd see it wherever it was. They had decided impulsively, when they'd stolen away upstairs last week. It had been the only time they'd mentioned Christmas ahead of the day, and he'd been partially afraid his mother would be upset. She herself hadn't mentioned it once. She had seemed so tired, so defeated after the fire, and lately he'd felt her gaze on him was cautious, like she was looking at something fragile. And he knew it, because it was the way he looked at her at times, the way he looked at Mary, the way he looked at everyone he loved. It would never go away, a voice deep inside him told him lately. There would always be a big gaping wound in him that could open anytime any of them went outside. Whether things got better or worse, he wouldn't be able to change that.

He looked at his mother again. She was peering at him, but not with the fragile appraising look. She seemed more energized, more resigned. “We just wanted to give you something,” he murmured.

“I appreciate it,” she said.

After everything she'd given him, he thought, but didn't say out loud.

“It was very nice,” she said.

Everything this day wasn't, if he thought much about it. But he wasn't going to. He offered his arm. “Walk you downstairs?” he asked.

She chuckled and rolled her eyes. “I think I can manage.”

He smiled and followed her.

Downstairs, Mary had disappeared. They found her in the kitchen.

“I found some corn,” she said, from up on the stepladder. “We can pop it. You know, in case people come.”

The idea that people would come seemed to have caught on among the three of them, and soon they were working towards this end, with Gail offering to help in the kitchen and Eric agreeing to shovel out the front door. He chuckled to himself that it was mostly a ritual at this point, since if anyone braved the snow to get here a little bit on the front stoop wouldn't be much of an obstacle, but it felt nice to have his muscles accomplishing something familiar.

On the front stoop, he worked steadily. He waved at Art and Lucy Robson as they approached. “Go on in if you like. We've got a fire going,” he said. He realized, remembering what Mary had mentioned earlier, that both former refugees had been here the past two years, though the first time they hadn't been sitting together.

“Merry Christmas!” called Marcy Nichols, Karl's roommate, as she approached with a few of her friends. “Karl said he's on his way, just seeing if he could get some rice cooked to bring.”

“Sounds great. We'll appreciate it,” said Eric, holding the door open for them. He shovelled some more, looking up at the sky again. He usually didn't imagine Jake doing the same anymore, but he thought about his brother for a moment. There had been a lot of Christmases where he hadn't known where Jake was. He had tried not to spare much of a thought for it then. There had been gifts to buy, parties to attend, people to visit and call and email. He had been certain, whenever the thought had crossed his mind, that Jake was fine anyway, and just a tiny bit satisfied that he could say he was the one helping his parents carry on traditions, put up their tree, make their toasts. Tonight, he stared at the violent blue, and thought a silent goodnight.

“Eric, working hard!” He glanced ahead of him. Jimmy was approaching, his arms held out in a gesture of goodwill, grinning and sporting a hat with huge ear flaps. Margaret, Woody, and Sally trailed behind him, and with them walked Darcy Hawkins and her kids. Allison was clutching a basket. “Hey, I thought it was your year for Santa,” said Jimmy. “Didn't you make a deal with Stanley?”

“Yeah, my turn,” said Eric slowly. “But he has the suit.”

“Ah well,” said Jimmy, waving a hand. “Let's get out of the cold, huh?”

Darcy and Margaret wished him a Merry Christmas as they went through the door. Sam and Woody followed quickly, smiles on their rosy faces. Sally eyed Eric for a moment, an appraising look on her face. With a shrug, she followed Allison inside. As the place was getting more crowded and the walkway mostly cleared, Eric decided to join them inside.

Somehow, without lights, food on the tables, and the jukebox merrily cranking away, the room seemed more subdued than it had last year, or even the year of the bombs, but the small group of people gathering seemed to be doing their best. They didn't have a lot of new stories to tell each other, and they all involved snow, but they were being as enthusiastic as they could.

He pulled off his hat and hung it on the hook by the back door. Gail came from the kitchen, carrying a big bowl of popcorn, and stopped to say, “We put a bit of salt on this batch. Mary found a bit of sugar and she's making a syrup to pour on the other batch. We'll call this the appetizer and that one dessert.”

He chuckled. After some of the things they'd eaten, it didn't sound so bad. His mother continued into the crowd, offering her bowl to Art and then talking to Darcy for a while as the Taylors clustered around the popcorn.

“Here, Eric,” said Gary Walcott, who had just arrived with his wife and another group battling the snow, including Emily, who gave Eric a quick hug as she passed by. Gary pressed a bottle into his hands. “Saved this for a gift for Chloe, but she thought it'd be nice to share. Don't know how much'll go around. Maybe you could add something to it.”

“Thanks,” he said. “I'll see what Mary thinks.” He glanced around the room once more, and stepped back into the kitchen.

By the dim light, Mary was stirring something vigorously. “How's it going?” he asked. She glanced up, a bemused smile threatening to break over her face. “It's a mess,” she said with a laugh.

“I think it looks good,” he said, eying the bowl of partly coated popcorn. A trail of sticky goo had spilled and a few pieces of popcorn had escaped the bowl and hit the steel counter. He popped one into his mouth and grinned at her. “Gary brought this, and I think he might have been suggesting you water it down.”

Mary made a face of exaggerated shock and indignation, and laughed. “Maybe we can do shots.” She glanced down and back up ruefully. “Maybe you can do shots.” She glanced around. “We might have a bit more apple juice in the back.” She went over to the store cupboard. They'd saved a few things in the raid, though mostly they'd rationed whatever they'd had already in their cupboards and things were looking sparse by now. Mary's voice echoed out of the cupboard as he heard her pushing boxes around. “So Gary's here?”

“Chloe too, and Emily, and the Taylors, Darcy and the kids, Marcy and Ian, and they said Karl's coming, probably others from their house,” he said. “They know we don't have much, but I guess they're staying.”

“We have grape drink mix!” she said, emerging triumphantly. She held an aged looking packet over her head. “I think it might actually be from the food drop.”

“Seriously?” he asked, reaching to turn it in her fingers so he could read the label.

“It was under the old coffee tin,” she said.

“Don't see any expiry date,” he said. “Think we could poison ourselves?”

She shrugged. “It's not irradiated.” She chuckled at this, for some reason, and he did too, in spite of himself, and they both laughed, hard, reaching for each other's arms, steadying themselves. She let out a deep breath and leaned closer to his chest. “You having an okay day?” she asked.

He nodded against her hair.

“Do you miss it all?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Don't miss the stuff, not that much.”

She sighed against him. “Yeah,” she said. He ran his hand over her stomach for a moment before pulling her closer, his hands resting on her back.

“It won't always be like this,” she said. Half a question. Half a reassurance. “Next year will be different. We won't be able to believe how excited we were.” She shook the drink crystals, smiling. “We'll have other food, and different snow storms. Probably other problems. But we'll have them back.” She glanced up at him, with a flash of fear on her face at the bold statement neither of them usually made. She leaned her head against his shoulder again. “We'll have music again too.”

He chuckled softly, rocking slightly on the balls of his feet. He wanted to make her laugh again. “Hey,” he said. “Don't wish it away. Don't look at it like it's forever.”

Her laugh was clear in the flickering darkness. He sang the next few lines, stepping back and extending his arm, holding up her hand. “Between you and me, I can honestly say that things can only get better.” She laughed some more and slowly danced with him as he sang the next few lines. He twirled her under his arm as he broke into the chorus, flourishing his other hand on “I guess that's why they call it the blues...”

She hummed along through “time on my hands could be time spent with you,” joining some of the words, and going halfway into a dip. They laughed and ambled their way through the parts, until he stepped back and kicked the counter's leg with a resounding metal clang. “You alright?” she asked, the laughter in her voice not without concern.

“Yeah,” he said with a gruff smile. “I'm alright.”

When they came out into the main room of the bar, the guests were moving the chairs and tables, forming a circle in the middle of the room. Mary began pouring people drinks, mostly consisting of grape punch but there were a few mixed with homemade vodka. Eric went to put another log into the stove. Most people had taken off their coats but were still wearing scarves, hats, and thick sweaters.

Darcy smiled as she watched Allison, talking with Gary Walcott and Sal Logan while getting handfuls of popcorn. Her daughter's colleagues. How strange it might have been.

Gail came over and grabbed Mary's hand. “I want to show you something,” she said, motioning towards the circle of chairs. On one of the chairs sat a stack of duotang folders. She handed one to Mary.

“The song books from last year?” said Mary, flipping through one of them.

Gail nodded. “I sent Gary back to grab his guitar.”

Mary was still looking over the familiar lyrics. “He can play?”

Gail chuckled. “Not really, but Karl can.” She motioned over her shoulder.

Mary glanced up from the books and grinned at her.

Allison reached out a hand to stop Sam and Woody as they went barrelling by. “Easy guys, there's a really hot stove right over there.”

“We're going to be in a radio play!” exclaimed Woody.

“Since when?” she asked.

“We're going to be the children with sugar plums nesting in our heads,” said Woody.

“He's my brother from another mother!” added Sam.

“Where did you hear that?” she asked, rolling her eyes but feeling herself melt a tiny bit at her brother's wide smile.

They took off again, going just slow enough not to earn another warning. She glanced across the room. Her mother was sitting, sipping something from a glass. Chatting with Jimmy, Margaret, Emily, and the Robsons. Her friends. She went over and sat down beside Darcy, suddenly eager to be near her mom.

“It's snowing again!” Gary exclaimed as he came through the door a little while later, shaking the stuff off his coat and boots. “Not as bad as before though.”

“Come on in,” said Eric, handing him a mug of a hot concoction with a distinctly grape scent. “Have a seat.”

Most of the others had taken seats in the chairs, or on old blankets he and Mary had folded on the floor. Everyone had some kind of drink, though some had just asked for hot water, and they all held them raised in front of them. “Thanks everyone for coming out tonight,” Mary was saying. “I know we don't have much but I'm glad we can share it.” She clinked her glass with Gail's and with Eric's as others around them did cheers. Gail stood and cleared her throat. “In a little while we'll patch through to the crowd at the Richmonds' and say a quick 'Merry Christmas' and I hear we might get to hear a bit of a dramatic reading.”

“Stanley's going to be Mama in her kerchief,” supplied Mary “I'm his pregnant husband.” Eric chuckled.

“But for now,” said Gail. “Page three.” She sat down, turning the pages on her own folder, and reaching to give Mary's hand a squeeze. She looked across the circle. “Hit it, Karl.”

Karl strummed the opening chords. Not everyone began on the first line, but the uncertain voices got louder as they moved further into the verse. “God rest ye merry gentlemen, let nothing you dismay...”

In the low lights of the room, Allison laid her head on Darcy's shoulder. Darcy smiled.

Eric leaned back in his chair, keeping the rhythm with his foot.

Sam and Woody shared a book between them, shifting the pages back and forth as they tried to keep up with the old fashioned words.

Mary sang enthusiastically, losing her own voice in the circle as they reached higher and higher.

Gail looked across the circle of faces, facing her. The rest of the room was dark, the corners cold, but in their circle she could see them all, and the air was warm.

Karl strummed valiantly towards the second verse as they took breaths, chuckling in small waves at their earnest efforts. They turned pages, breathed in, and began the next verse.

Eric and Mary make up for their missing jukebox with Elton John's "I Guess That's Why They Call it the Blues," originally released in 1983.

The Bailey's Christmas partygoers sing "God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen," the traditional English Christmas carol first published by William B. Sandys in 1833.

The dramatic reading Stanley and Mary allude to performing (with guest stars Sam and Woody) is A Visit From Saint Nicolas, better known to us as 'Twas the Night Before Christmas, a poem attributed to Clement C. Moore and originally published anonymously in 1823.