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James takes a breath. The kind someone takes when they really think they might regret what they are about to do or say but are going forth anyway. “I’m in.”

“Ohhhh, okay!” Genie squeals and hugs the up-to-five-minutes-ago stranger. Then she grabs me by the coat and tells me to be ready by six, yells for Mrs. Reinhart to hold her horses, and collects her class, starting up a new tune of “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” while they all happily sing along.

“This is the singingest town I’ve ever been to,” James says as we watch her and her group of ducklings march off. “And I live in a pretty musical town.”

“I can’t believe you said yes to her.”

His gaze is distant as he watches them go.

“It just doesn’t seem up your alley,” I continue.

“Oh, it’s far from up my alley.” He sighs, rocks up on his toes as he looks back at me. “But she did say it was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. And free of charge.”

“For hypothermia, yeah, I agree.”

“I’m going to need to get some more clothes.”

“You kidding? You’re going to need a whole new wardrobe. It’s record-level freezing tonight.”

“Am I going to need to supply my own tent and sleeping bag?” His neck is already twisting this way and that, looking for supply stores. “Oh, please don’t tell me I’m going to have to go back inside Lincoln’s.”

“I’ve got stuff you can borrow. I come from a long line of campers; it’s basically our version of a Four Seasons beach vacation. But you will need a heavy coat. And layers. And about four pairs of socks.”

I say it halfway expecting him to bail on the idea. Realizing that camping with strangers is going to be expensive and freezing and entirely awkward would cause the average person to do that. Yet he just nods as he takes in this information.

“Have you ever been camping?” I query. “Do you not realize this is going to be fairly miserable?”

“I went once. Boy Scouts. We slept in a 7-Eleven parking lot for a fundraiser.”

“Yeah. That’s not going to be like this.”

“It was convenient because they had heated bathrooms.”

“Nope. Nothing remotely at all related.”

“And we spent the majority of the night sneaking in to buy hot chocolates.”

“Zero percent in the same field.”

“I quit shortly afterward, though.”

“Why?”

“It took too much time away from my PSAT prep club.”

I nearly choke on my own laughter and slap his back, wheeling him away from Lincoln’s. “C’mon, city boy. I think I know of an outdoor store that can help you live through the night.”

Mountain Outpost isn’t the kind of shop where festive sweaters live, but given the giant canoe hanging from the awning and the standing oar inscribed with store hours, the place is the right fit for practical needs. It’s at the very end of the street, standing directly parallel to Peter’s coffee shop, and given the number of people inside, it’s clearly a Christmas hit for gifts under the tree.

The whole store smells of bicycle tires and wood-wick candles in the scent of, you guessed it, wood, and everything I touch feels like alpaca wool and carries the name of Patagonia. It doesn’t take long for me to load James’s arms with the things he’ll need.

I’ll be honest. Sitting on a random bean bag watching James try on various brightly colored coats turns out to be a sort of highlight of my life.

It’s like the man was born colorblind and today has been given one of those fancy pairs of color-correcting glasses.

He holds up a brazenly blue coat with a kind of mesmerized gaze.

There are no mirrors, so I snap a couple of pictures of him to show him how the cherry red and tangerine orange stand up against his frame.