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Our food arrived. I put the phone away.

“I want to hear the rest of that sometime,” he said.

“I’ll play it next Thursday.”

***

Heath and Kieran’s lobby wreath was the size of a tractor tire. Upstairs, the hallway smelled of browned meat, red wine, and onions cooked down until they’d gone sweet.

Heath opened the door in socks and a reindeer sweater. “Kieran says ten minutes. Don’t touch the village.”

Along the table behind their sofa stood a row of lit ceramic buildings in cotton-batting snow: a church, a bakery, a shop with a striped awning, and a red building with a tower. Behind it a reef tank glowed blue, and a cleaner shrimp worked its way along a rock at the front.

Trier headed straight for the kitchen and came back with two glasses of wine. “Kieran says don’t help.”

“Did I offer?”

“I know you. You’re a good boy.”

I sat at the long oak table and found I had nothing to organize. I drank my wine.

Kieran’s ten minutes were twenty. The short ribs had fallen off the bone in dark, glossy braising liquid. The meat tasted of soy and garlic and something bright I couldn’t name until Kieran said pear juice.

“Mild batch,” Kieran said, setting down a second dish. “That’s for Heath. He grew up in Wisconsin.”

Heath was already reaching for the hot sauce. “I grew up with salt and pepper.”

“Exactly.”

Heath pointed his fork at the village. “I need a ruling. I put every building where the cord could reach an outlet. Kieran moved everything.”

“I moved two buildings,” Kieran said. “The bakery was blocking the fire station.”

“He’s right,” I said. “You can’t block a fire station.”

Heath turned toward me. “They’re just ceramic buildings.”

“The ceramic people need a clear route for their fire trucks.”

“There are no trucks or people.”

“There’s a fire station,” I said. “That implies trucks.”

Trier put his fork down and watched me with his chin on his fist. “I’m with Heath. That village has never seen a fire. The only thing being blocked is the fire station’s ego.”

Heath pushed back and walked down the hall.

“We’re eating,” Kieran called.

Heath returned with a box, holding it up beside his face like a game-show prize. Under a picture of another ceramic building, in gold script: VILLAGE POST OFFICE. “Latest addition,” he said.

Trier studied it. Then he sat back and laughed. “Will the postal workers raise concerns about access?”

Heath set the building on the counter and returned to the table.

We had seconds of the short ribs. Near the end of the meal, Trier asked Heath how his mother’s winter play was going. Heath said Scrooge had broken his arm sledding, and the understudy was taking over.

Kieran packed the containers of leftovers in a canvas bag, wedged with a dish towel. “Keep it level.”