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He shivered as if his body was reluctant to release the cold stored in his cells.
Dan didn’t care about that. He didn’t even remember the cold. He barely registered the candle and lantern light.
Instead he looked at something in the corner and something in the adjoining room. His eyes—his whole head—kept moving back and forth between these things. Seeing them. Not believing them. Not understanding them.
In the corner of the room, dominating that whole part of the living room, standing eight feet high, was a Christmas tree. Covered in brightly twinkling multicolored LED lights. A battery stood on a small vase pedestal, wires running over and up into the tree, powering the lights.
The lights.
Christmas lights.
The tree was full and fresh, the pine scent perfuming the air, mingling with the burning logs. A living smell, even from burning wood and cut-down tree. It smelled alive. The lights looked alive. And around the base of the tree was a mountain range of presents. Carefully wrapped in bright paper with delicately tied bows.
Dozens of them.
Through the archway, in the dining room, was a table set for seven people. Forks and knives, linen napkins in a poinsettia pattern. Sparkling stemware. Silver plates and bowls and tureens.
All of them filled with food.
All of them.
Mounds of mashed potatoes and candied yams. Green beans smothered in baked almonds. Broccoli and cauliflower decorated with thin twists of red and green peppers. Bowls of peas and corn. A basket with one flap of a holly-patterned cloth peeled back to reveal the curves of honey-brown rolls. And in the center of the table, rising above everything else, was a whole roast turkey. A big one. Golden skin except where one part of the breast had been torn away by greedy little hands, and there it was pure white.
Dan almost fell down.
He wanted to, maybe should have.
This was unreal, after all. This couldn’t be here. Christmas was extinct. Christmas had died along with every other holiday. Christmas Day meant nothing more than any other day. There were a lot of days, and none of them were special anymore. They all ended with hunger and darkness, except the ones that ended in death.
Except . . .
Dan squeezed his eyes shut and took a breath so that he would be braced for the reality of an empty room and a bare table when he opened them again.
He opened them again.
The table was still there.
The food was still there.
“Santa brought us Christmas dinner,” said Mason. His voice was far too reasonable and normal. It jolted Dan, who turned and looked at his brother.
“What?”
“Santa did this,” said Mason. He wiped at the gravy on his cheeks, then licked the back of his hand. “It’s not cold yet.”
“Santa?”
“Sure. I saw him. Santa was here.”
“What?”
“Santa. He was here.”
“Here?”
Mason pointed toward the kitchen. “I saw him out in the yard. He had his red suit and white beard. It was Santa.”
There was no hysteria in Mason’s voice. There should have been. How could there not be?
