Tilly felt a familiar ache in their ribs. They turned away first.
Mom drifted by with a tray of cookies and whispered, “Don’t ruin this,” before vanishing again.
Tilly groaned. Savannah pretended not to notice.
The evening swelled into its loudest point. Someone turned up the TV. Someone else complained about it. A cousin argued with an uncle about football stats that absolutely weren’t real. Mom shouted above all of them while packing leftovers into mismatched containers.
Savannah stood near the mantle, cider warming her hands, and Tilly watched her take everything in. Her expression hovered somewhere between uncertainty and something Tilly couldn’t quite name.
Aunt Denise swooped in. “You eat like a bird,” she said, stacking three rolls on Savannah’s plate without permission.
Savannah startled. “I ate plenty.”
“No, you didn’t. You’re tiny. Tiny people are unhappy.”
Tilly nearly spat out their drink. “Aunt Denise. Please.”
Savannah froze, plate in hand, like she wasn’t sure if she was supposed to argue or retreat. “I’m not unhappy,” she said finally.
“Good,” Denise said. “Then have another roll.”
Mom appeared behind her. “Denise, stop diagnosing people. This is why no one tells you secrets.”
“No one tells me secrets because I tell the truth.”
“Exactly. Savannah, ignore her. She’s nosy and sometimes wrong, but mostly nosy.”
Savannah nodded like she’d weathered a natural disaster.
Nate reappeared with the dog. “Tilly says you cover crime. Do you get scared?”
“Sometimes.”
“Do you run toward danger?”
“Usually not,” she said. “I ask questions. That’s the job.”
Nate nodded solemnly. “Tilly runs toward danger.”
Tilly groaned. “Please stop talking.”
Aunt Denise jumped in. “It’s true. You broke your wrist climbing that fence and lied about it.”
“That was eight years ago,” Tilly said.
Savannah’s eyes flicked toward them, sharp and briefly protective.
Mom clapped. “Enough. Someone help me with the pie.”
Savannah stepped forward before anyone else. “I can help.”
Tilly watched, surprised, as Mom handed her a towel and guided her through the kitchen like she already belonged. Savannah followed every instruction quietly, trying not to take up space but inevitably doing so anyway.
It struck Tilly gently but deeply. Savannah Wells looked like she’d never learned how to handle a room that wanted her.
Later, while cousins debated whether the dog should wear a Christmas sweater, Savannah stood watching with a mix of confusion and something warmer.
Mom joined her at the counter, nudging her gently. “Do you like ham, sweetheart? I wrapped a plate for you to take home.”
