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Through it all, Antonio breathed beside him, steady, present, and warm in a way that Hakeem could feel along his entire body, shoulder to ankle. It was the full length of another person choosing to be close, and Hakeem breathed in the significance.

This is what it sounds like, Hakeem thought. When you stop listening for danger.

Epilogue

Final Boy

The tree was black.

Not a moody pine that could pass for traditional if you squinted. It was matte black, a modest five feet tall, and sitting in the corner of the front room on a stand Antonio had spray-painted to match, decorated with exactly twelve ornaments that Hakeem had selected from a vintage shop on Vermont with curatorial intensity.

The ornaments were: a miniature coffin with a hinged lid; a glass eyeball; a crow; a bat with one chipped wing; a tiny replica of the Overlook Hotel; a skull wearing a Santa hat; a black candle that was not actually a candle but looked convincing enough to alarm guests; a spider in a web of silver thread; a ceramic hand reaching out of a ceramic grave; a small wooden house with painted smoke coming from the chimney; a wolf; and—because Hakeem had insisted on at least one gesture toward sincerity—a single gold star at the top that caught the lamp light and made the whole arrangement look like something that couldn't decide whether it was celebrating or mourning.

Layla stood in the doorway of the front room with a glass of red wine and an expression of pure, delighted horror.

"That," she said, "is the ugliest tree I have ever seen."

"Thank you," Hakeem said from the couch.

"It looks like it's going through something."

"It's festive!"

"It is not festive. It is the opposite of festive. It is a tree that has seen things and has decided joy is not for everyone."

Antonio's voice came from the kitchen. "He spent forty-five minutes choosing the ornaments."

"It was thirty," Hakeem said.

"It was forty-five. I timed it."

"You time everything."

"Occupational habit."

Layla walked to the tree and examined the coffin ornament at eye level. She opened the tiny hinged lid, looked inside, closed it again, and turned to Hakeem. "There's nothing in the coffin."

"It's aspirational."

"It's concerning."

"It's Christmas."

“Is it?”

Layla took a long sip of wine and wandered into the kitchen, where Antonio was at the stove in a cream sweater and dark jeans, glasses on, sleeves pushed up. He was making something that involved onions, garlic, and rosemary. It was divine, and Hakeem felt like the luckiest man in the world.

Layla hopped onto the counter beside the stove with practiced ease, as if she’d been a housecat in some other life. She adjusted herself on the counter and declared, “This is my spot!”

She swung her legs once, took another sip, and watched Antonio cook.

"You two are disgustingly domestic," she said.

"Thank you," Antonio said without looking up.

"It wasn't a compliment."

"It was received as one."