Peter went to bed with surprisingly little trouble that night. Usually any change in his routine was enough to send him into a fit of heart-splintering screams, but except for the usual tantrum over brushing his teeth, the evening was calm. Brendan read to him in bed, Goodnight, Moon and "The Owl and the Pussycat"; and before he was finished his son was asleep, hand knuckled up against one cheek, the much-gnawed rubber duck nestled against his breast.

"Don't you read him Christmas stories?"

Brendan gently tugged the blanket up around Peter's shoulders, motioning Tony to be quiet. "No," he whispered, and joined him in the hall. "I don't have any here."

"Teri packed some. I saw them. The Grinch, The Night Before Christmas—"

"Tony." Brendan poked his friend in the stomach. "You know what? I'm going to tell you a secret. Christmas depresses me. It makes me sad. It totally bums me out."

"But why?"

He sucked his breath in angrily; but when he looked into Tony's eyes he saw only genuine puzzlement. Brendan sighed, drew his hand back and ran it through his thinning hair.

"It just does," he said. "Okay? I just don't get in much of a Christmas spirit anymore."

"You're not kidding," said Tony.

Still, after he'd finished cleaning up and going through his e-mail and sorting out Peter's clothes for the next day, Brendan found himself in the living room again, sprawled beside Tony on the couch. Outside, icy rain spattered against the windows and tossed red and green confetti onto the ground beneath the traffic light. On the TV screen, snow whipped around a man with shoulders hunched against the cold as he hurried down a narrow lane, rosy-cheeked urchins singing merrily in his wake.

Brendan nudged Tony with his foot. "Who's this one?"

"George C. Scott. The Reagan-era Scrooge. See? His clothes are expensive—nice cut, nice fabric? He just can't be bothered helping anyone else. Classic Republican Scrooge. As opposed to Alistair Sim, the classic Dickensian Scrooge, who was a genuine miser." Tony wiggled his fingers. "Holes in his gloves, stuff like that. Then there's Mr. Magoo, the great Broadway Musical Scrooge."

Brendan laughed. "What, are you a Scrooge scientist?"

"Sure, man. Lionel Barrymore, Reginald Owen—vintage Hollywood. And Scrooge McDuck—what can I say? Quite simply one of the greats."

"Yeah? What about me?"

"You?" Tony scrutinized his friend, rubbing his chin. "You're the classic post-po-mo Scrooge. Involved with the text, yet denying your own place within it. Definitely post-post-modern."

Brendan snorted. "Right." He leaned forward, picked up the TV Guide from the floor and began flipping through it. "Where do you find all this stuff? I mean, half of it isn't even listed in here."

"I dunno. But I can always find it. Sometimes it takes a while, but …" Tony shrugged. "It's there."

"What about that Chip Crockett Christmas thing? Ever hear any more about that?"

"No." Tony looked sad. "I keep checking, but nobody seems to know anything except these sort of vague rumors. I figure I'll just, like, stay up all night Christmas Eve and see what happens."

"Great idea, Tony." Brendan took a deep breath. "But you know what? I've kind of had enough of Uncle Ebeneezer. I'm going to bed."

Tony nodded absently, engrossed once more in the movie. "Sure. 'Night, Brenda."

It was a scramble to get Peter ready for school the next morning. He refused to eat anything, screaming and throwing first a bagel, then Cheerios, toast, english muffin, cantaloupe, and instant oatmeal on the floor, before his increasingly desperate father gave up and began the struggle to get him dressed. When Peter stayed on the weekend, Brendan always let him wear his pajamas until lunchtime. Now it took both Brendan and Tony a full fifteen minutes to get the boy into his clothes, and even then Peter ended up wearing the same T-shirt he'd gone to sleep in the night before.

"Hey, Pete, man, calm down," said Tony when the ordeal was finally over. "It's only clothes."

Brendan shook his head, red-faced and panting, and started shoving plastic containers and juice boxes into Peter's knapsack. "That's just it. It's not just clothes. It's everything—everything is a battle." He found himself blinking back tears, and turned to the kitchen counter, waiting until he could speak without his voice breaking. "I swear to god, I don't know how Teri does it."

"No lie." Tony sighed and began to scoop congealed oatmeal from the floor. In the living room Peter sat rigidly on the couch, watching Cookie Monster eat an aluminum plate. "Does she have to drive him in every day?"

"Yeah. And she—shit." Brendan straightened, smacking himself in the forehead with his palm. "How'm I going to do this?"

"Do what?"

"Well, I can't take him on the Metro in rush hour. And it'll be so late, I'll never find a parking spot by the office after I drive him in. Let me think, let me think—

"I know." Brendan snapped his fingers, pointed at Tony. "You're not doing anything, right? You mind coming with me? Then you can drop me off at the office and drive back here, and I don't have to worry about parking."

Tony frowned, glancing at the television. "Yeah, I guess. Do I have time to—"

"No. If the Grinch is on you can damn well tape him. Let's go—come on, Peter, sweetie, time for school.…"

Out on Maryland Avenue, the city's ineffectual road crews were doing their usual job of making the morning commute even worse. The night's sleet had been reduced to a puree of salted slush and dead leaves clogging the roadside, and numerous tow trucks were still doing a brisk business on the narrow side streets.

Yet despite the mess, the commuters crowding the sidewalks were cheerful, men and women in trenchcoats and lightweight parkas waving to each other as they hurried towards Union Station and the Capitol grounds. Strands of white lights spun through trees and hedges and outlined the fronts of brick rowhouses and storefronts. In Stanton Square Park, an evergreen glittered green and blue and red where some street people had strung together empty beer cans and bottles with strapping tape and bits of aluminum foil.

"Hey, check it out!" said Tony as the Volvo crawled past. "That looks nice, doesn't it?"

Brendan grunted. On a bench by the sidewalk, Dave the Grave and his dog were already settled with a paper bag between them. Dave's battered tweed jacket had been augmented by a long red muffler and some tinsel; his dog lolled beside him, the ends of the comforter tucked between his paws. At sight of Brendan's car, Dave lifted his bottle and shouted a greeting.

" 'Aaay, whoa whoa! M'ry 'issmiss!"

Tony rolled down his window and leaned out. "Merry Christmas, Dave!"

"Shut up, Tony." Brendan pressed a button and sent Tony's window sliding back up. "He's a goddam bum."

"Aw, give him a break, man! It's Christmas."

"Yeah, well, he can go to the shelter with everyone else, then. Or freeze on a grate."

"Jeez, Brendan!" Tony shook his head in dismay. "What about all those poor people in the missions we used to collect for at Sacred Heart? You never wanted them to freeze on a grate."

"If they'd been outside my house, I'd have wanted them to freeze. And their little dogs, too."

"Boy, what a grouch. Hey, Peter, you ever know your old man was such a grouch?" Peter said nothing; only chewed thoughtfully on his yellow duck and stared out at the bottle-decked tree behind Dave the Grave.

Brendan continued to be a grouch the whole way to the Birchwood School, immune to Tony's admiration for the White House Christmas tree, the decorations in the windows of the restaurants at Dupont Circle, the group of kids from Gonzaga High School singing by a subway entrance. In the front seat Tony rocked and sang, too, turning to pick up Peter's duck when it fell and yelling encouragement at some boys trying to slide down a driveway on a cafeteria tray.

"Keep your weight in the front—the front—"

"They're going to kill themselves," Brendan said, turning up the side road leading to the school. "And then their parents will hire me to sue the company that makes those trays."

"Don't you remember doing that? Only we had those flying saucers?"

"Yeah. And we had snow. All right, here we are. Let's make this snappy, I have a client coming in at ten."

Tony slid from the front seat and began gathering Peter's things. "How come you're so busy right before Christmas?"

"Because I want to be," Brendan said tersely. "Okay, Petie, here we are at school."

Inside, everything looked pretty much as it always did. There were green-and-red cutouts on the wall, a few reindeer and trees, some yellow cardboard stars and blue Menorahs; but no Christmas tree, no lights, no scary Santas. There were fewer kids as usual, too, and half as many teachers.

"Peter! Hi!" Peter looked up, a faint smile on his face as Peggy knelt before him. "I missed you when your Mom picked you up early yesterday—hi!"

She reached forward and gave him a hug, holding him very tightly for just a moment and then withdrawing. She stood, brushing the hair from her eyes, and smiled. She was wearing a long green sweater with stars on it, and a small red-and-green-striped wool cap. "Brendan! I haven't seen you for a while—"

"I know, my schedule changed, I—" Brendan was still staring at his son. "He let you hug him?"

"Yeah, that's a new thing, just this week. But we've been working up to it for while. He's really doing great, you know, he's been making some incredible progress just these last few weeks. Do you have a minute? 'Cause I can—"

She looked over and for the first time saw Tony. "Oh! Hi, I'm sorry, I work with Peter here, Peggy Storrs."

She stuck out her hand. For a moment Tony just stared at her, with an expression Brendan had last seen when he'd received the new Advent Moth promo. Then,

"Very pleased to meet you," he said, grabbing her hand and pumping it. "Anthony Kemper. I'm an old friend of Brendan's. We went to high school together. In Yonkers. Actually, we're living together now, if you ever --"

"That is very temporary." Brendan glared at him, then turned back to Peggy. "Actually, Peggy, I'm kind of in a rush this morning, but—"

But Peggy was still looking at Tony, her brow furrowed. "You know, you look very familiar. I mean, really familiar. Have you, like, been in here before? Although I don't remember—"

Brendan sighed. "Peggy, meet Tony Maroni."

"Tony—Maroni?" Her blue eyes got huge. "You're like, the real Tony Maroni? Oh my god. You are. I don't believe it! God, I saw you guys when I was in high school! In Seattle, I guess it was—jeez, it must be fifteen years ago! God, you guys were great, that was like the greatest show I have ever seen in my life!"

Tony smiled dreamily. "Yeah, yeah … I remember that. The Limehouse. That was right before we went to Japan. That was, like, the last time we really played together," he added wistfully. "I mean, all of us, in the States."

"You left after that …" Peggy ran a hand over her cap. "God, I was so bummed out. I was only fifteen, and that was it, I felt like I'd missed everything. Tony Maroni." She shook her head. "This is so amazing. I guess I'd heard once that you lived here in D.C., but—"

Brendan cleared his throat. "You know, I hate to break up the Rock Trivia Show, but I have a client coming in half an hour and I need Mr. Maroni here to drive me back to my office."

"Oh sure, sure." Peggy glanced down at Peter, then up at Brendan again. She was actually blushing. "But I just can't believe that—"

"Oh, please, believe," said Brendan. He wondered what Peggy would think if she knew that Tony considered This Is Spinal Tap a model for behavioral therapy. "Look, I'm in a real hurry today, that's all. Maybe tomorrow when I drop him off, we could go over some of this great stuff you're talking about."

"Oh, but there's no school tomorrow. Christmas Eve. So many kids and teachers are going away or have family stuff, Deirdre decided that we'd just close until the 28th. We have early release today, at noon. It was in the newsletter …"

Brendan swore under his breath. Peggy hunched her shoulders. "I'm really sorry—you didn't know? That was why Teri was so freaked out about having to go away …"

"Right, right. It's okay, not a problem …" Brendan turned and stooped beside his son. "Peter, Peter, Peter. What am I going to do about you?" he murmured.

"I'll be there." Tony's voice was so loud that several of the other teachers turned. "I mean, hey, what else do I have going on? It'll be great, we'll do Christmas stuff."

"Christmas can be a little intimidating for some of these kids." Peggy smiled. "But you probably know that already if you're hanging out with this little guy here at home. I still can't believe you and Brendan went to high school together."

Brendan stared at the floor and shook his head despairingly. Tony nodded, bopping back and forth on his heels.

"You know what?" he said. "I can come pick him up at noon, and you can tell me what I need to know about being with him. I mean, whatever I don't know already."

"Which would fill an encyclopedia," Brendan muttered darkly. "Listen, Elvis, I really do have to get back to the office. Peggy, Peter will be fine with Tony, you just tell him anything you think he needs to know, okay?"

Peggy nodded. "I don't think you're on the sheet as an authorized pickup, are you, Tony? So maybe you could just come to the office and fill out a form, and Brendan can sign it, and we'll be all set," she said, and started for the office.

"Sure, sure!" Tony loped after her.

"Do you believe this, Peter?" Brendan shook his head. "I graduated fourth in my class at Georgetown. Plus, I thought she was gay."

Peter said nothing. Though if his father had turned his head, he might have seen something like reflected light shining in his son's eyes, as Peter gazed sideways at Tony jouncing up and down outside the office.

"Listen, sweetie. Daddy has to go to work now. Uncle Tony's going to pick you up at lunchtime. Can you remember that? It won't be me and it won't be Mommy—"

"Okay. I'm signed on, Captain Kirk," Tony announced, sweeping up behind Brendan. "You ready? Want me to drive?"

"No, I'll drive." Brendan sighed. "Yeah, I guess I'm ready. Remember, Peter." He stood, pointed at Tony. "Uncle Tony here will pick you up."

Tony nodded. "Noon, right?"

"Actually, if you can come a little earlier, it'll make it easier in case he's having a rough day." Peggy smiled. "Or if I am."

Brendan groaned. "Let's go—"

"Bye, then—see you around noon. Hooray hello, Tony!"

"Whoa whoa whoa!" Tony called. "Ouch! Jeez, I'm coming, Brenda, for chrissakes—"

Brendan drove back to Capitol Hill. Tony bopped and drummed on the dashboard and sang "Christmas (Baby Please Come Home)" until Brendan threatened to throw him out and make him walk from Foggy Bottom.

"Okay, okay, I've stopped, see? Man, I just can't believe that girl Peggy, huh? She's great, she's like so great …"

But Brendan was brooding over how Peggy had been able to hug his son. Automatically he glanced into the rearview mirror, looking for Peter in his car seat. For a split second he had a flash of panic, seeing it was empty—

But of course Peter wasn't there. Peter was at school, bonding with strangers. Panic subsided into a wash of despair, and Brendan gripped the wheel until his hands hurt.

"How come you never told me about her?"

Brendan swallowed, let his breath out. "You never asked."

"I can't believe she saw us at the Limehouse. That was probably the best show we ever did, you know that? I can't believe she saw it."

"At least she's old enough to vote." Brendan pulled over near his office. For a moment he just sat there, waiting to see if the despair would fade. It did not. A young woman pushing a stroller around puddles on the sidewalk stopped, pointing at the window of the Trover Shop. Swags of fresh holly hung there, their berries so deep and glistening a red they looked like drops of blood. Brendan shut his eyes, then turned and reached into the backseat for his briefcase.

"Listen, Tony. Get there early like Peggy said, okay? But don't forget Peter. Make sure he eats something when he gets home—actually, bring something in the car, there's some juice boxes and peanut butter crackers in the kitchen. Ask Peggy to check if he needs any medicine before you leave, okay? I'll try to get out early but probably I won't be back till five or so."

"Sure man, sure, no prob." Tony clambered into the driver's seat as Brendan climbed out. "Don't worry, we'll be great, it'll be fun."

"Make sure he's in his car seat!" Brendan shouted as Tony pulled away, an arc of slush rising behind him. "Get there early. And be careful—!"

Tony was careful, and he got there early. In fact, he got there about an hour after leaving Brendan on Pennsylvania Avenue. It would have been even sooner, but he stopped at the flower vendor's at Eastern Market and bought a small crimson poinsettia in a green plastic pot shaped like a Christmas tree.

"Hi," he said breathlessly when he arrived back at the Birchwood School. A half dozen children were settled at separate tables around the room, each with a grownup and a cookie and a little paper cup full of juice. Peggy looked up from where she sat across from Peter, holding the cookie for him.

"Tony! You are early."

"Here. This is for you. Merry Christmas." Tony plonked himself on the floor beside Peggy and handed her the poinsettia. "Unless you're not allowed to accept gifts."

"Oh no, gifts are highly encouraged. Look, Peter! See? This is a poinsettia. A flower—this is a flower—"

"So. Any instructions?" Tony turned and smiled at Peter, stretched his hand out to within a few inches of his face and waved gently. "Hey, Petie. You ready to come home with me? Watch Mister Magoo?"

Peter moved his head so that he faced away from Tony; but his gaze edged sideways, watching.

"Mister Magoo!" exclaimed Peggy. "God, I loved that—it used to be my favorite Christmas show. But they never run it anymore. Did you rent it?"

"Uh-uh." Tony wiggled his fingers at Peter.

"Is it on Nickelodeon or something?"

"No. I mean, I don't know. I guess."

"Huh. Well, I'll check it out when I get home, maybe I can catch the end."

"Wanna come over with me and Pete here? Cause then you could watch it with—"

Peggy shook her head. "I wish I could. But I have to write up all the weekly reports and stuff like that. Maybe another time." She smiled across the table at Peter. "So, Peter, are you ready? Tony here's going to drive you home today. Then your Daddy will be back later. Okay? Let's finish our snack and get everything ready to go …"

Tony went with her to gather Peter's things. "So. Is he, like, really doing better? I haven't seen so much of him the last two weeks, 'cause he's been with Teri."

Peggy nodded. She turned from the wall of brightly-painted cubbies and leaned against it, cradling Peter's jacket to her chest. "You know, he really is. We work so intensely with the kids here, and it can take years, but sometimes all of a sudden you just have a breakthrough. And I really think that could happen with Peter. Although," she added, lowering her voice, "probably I shouldn't say that. People get very, very sensitive about the issue of 'curing' autism."

Tony stared at Peter, standing off by himself and staring at a knothole in the wall. "Right," Tony said softly. "Well, I know his Mom and Dad love him no matter what."

Peggy bit her lip, then nodded. "Oh, sure," she said. "Though I think Brendan has some unresolved issues. He seems a little—distracted lately. Not as focused. But like I said, I shouldn't be saying this …"

"It's okay. I'm, like, family," said Tony. "And let me tell you, Brendan really loves that."

He laughed and bent to pick up Peter's knapsack. "Okay, Petie. Let's go watch Mister Magoo's Christmas Carol. One of the very best—"

Peggy walked them to the front door. A few other parents were waiting by the office now with wrapped packages, greeting teachers and waving at their children.

"Yvonne! I'll be right with you—" Peggy touched the shoulder of a woman in a faux-mink coat, then turned back to Tony. "That's the mother of my other student. I should go. But thanks so much for coming by, Tony."

"So, are you, like around? After the holidays maybe?"

Peggy straightened her little wool cap and smiled. "Maybe. Thanks for the poinsettia. Tell Mister Magoo I said hi. And Peter—"

She stooped and gave him another quick strong hug. "You have a wonderful Christmas, Peter. I'll see you very soon. Very, very soon …"

They walked outside, Peter stopping once to stare ruminatively at a spiral of oil sending spectral currents across a puddle. Tony waited with him. "Hey, pretty cool, huh?" he said, and continued to the car. "You know, you're a lucky guy, Pete."

Tony held open the Volvo's back door and watched as Peter slowly climbed in. "Having a babe like that for a teacher. Man oh man."

They returned to Brendan's apartment. The sky was inked with clouds like slate-colored smoke, the air had that metallic bite that precedes snow. Peter was careful not to look into Tony's eyes when he glanced back at him. He seemed not to hear Tony when he asked a question or pointed out something—Christmas lights, sidewalk Santa—and after they parked the boy walked in front of him, dragging his backpack and making rhythmic huff-huff noises.

"Okay. Lunchtime," announced Tony when they got inside. He cut up an apple and smeared the slices with peanut butter. Peter refused to sit, so Tony fed him standing. Tony ended up eating most of it, but he did manage to get Peter to drink some milk, only half of which ended up on the floor.

"All right. Now Uncle Tony has to check his e-mail. Come on—"

Peter ignored him. He walked into the living room and sat on the floor and began pulling at a thread in the carpet. Tony frowned, then turned and walked down the hall.

"I'll be right back. You come on down here if you want, okay?"

He checked his mail and spent a few minutes reading the headlines, then went to Chip Crockett's Web site. Nothing new there. A few messages from a week ago, Tony's own unanswered request for information about Chip's Christmas special. He was just going to log off when he heard a soft huff-huff behind him.

"Hey, Peter. C'mere, want to check this out?"

Peter stepped forward, keeping a good distance from where Tony sat. There was still peanut butter on his face, and a clump in his hair where he'd twiddled it into a knot.

"Look," said Tony. "See? That's Chip Crockett. Your Daddy and I liked him when we were little. Like you like Cookie Monster."

Peter avoided his eyes, but when Tony turned back to the computer the boy stepped forward, staring at the monitor. "And that's Ogden Orff. Listen—"

Tony punched a key. Static; then,

"That's my boy—Ogden Orff!"

Peter moved closer.

"Wanna hear it again?"

Tony played the sound bite again; then drew up the black-and-white image of Chip Crockett dressed as Ogden Orff. "See? That's him? Ogden Orff. And look—here's Captain Dingbat. And this one, this is my favorite. Ooga Booga. Isn't he great? Check out that schnozz, man—ever see a nose like that? Hey, you're blocking me!"

Peter stepped in front of him, his face scant inches from where the black-and-white image of a puppet with bulbous nose and tiny hands filled the screen.

"Pretty cool, huh?" asked Tony. Peter shook his head and continued to stare. "Ooga Booga. Good ol' Ooga Booga."

Tony sighed, swiping the hair from his eyes. "But you know, we oughta go check out Mister Magoo. Come on, let me turn it off now."

He started to move the mouse, but as the screen changed Peter shook his head again, and when the screen went blank he made a sharp angry sound.

"Hey man, I know; but I promise, we can come back later. Let's go watch TV now. Come on, it's Mister Magoo—you'll like him, he's like Ooga Booga only he moves."

Tony started for the living room. Peter remained where he was, gazing at the empty monitor.

"Come on, Petie," Tony urged. "Let's go …"

At last Peter followed him. Tony put the television on and slumped onto the couch, remote in hand. Peter sat on the floor. Tony began flipping through the stations until he found what he was looking for.

"Hey, great, it's just starting! Watch, Petie, you're gonna love this show—"

That was how Brendan found them when he got home hours later. They were onto the Grinch by then, the floor around them scattered with popcorn and broken crackers.

"Tony. Peter." Brendan shut the door, shaking moisture from his overcoat. "Man, it's getting cold out. Hi, guys."

"Hey, Brenda Starr! You're just in time. Look, he's stealing the Christmas tree!"

"Yeah, great. " Brendan rolled his eyes. He looked back down at the handful of letters he'd just picked up from the floor beneath the mail slot. "Here, you got something."

He handed Tony a letter and set his own mail on the kitchen counter. Tony glanced at the envelope, then shoved it into a pocket.

"Did he have anything to eat?" asked Brendan. He ran a finger along the counter top, frowning: someone had spilled something there, flour it looked like, or maybe salt. "Beside what's on the floor?"

"Some peanut butter and apple and some milk. And a lot of popcorn."

"All the major food groups. Well, we've got frozen pizza for dinner." Brendan stepped back into the living room and stood behind his son. "What do you think, Peter? You like this Grinch guy?"

Peter shook his head slightly. On screen the Grinch covered his ears against the sound of villagers caroling. Brendan crouched down to pick up bits of popcorn.

"I do," he said. "I can really relate to him. You know why? Because there is too much noise. Turn it down, Tony."

Still, after Peter was in bed the rest of the evening was quiet—too quiet for Tony, who wanted to watch David Bowie and Bing Crosby singing "The Little Drummer Boy" but was forbidden to by Brendan.

"For the next forty-eight hours, this is a Christmas-free zone," he announced, shooing Tony from the couch and changing the channel to CNN.

"Forty-eight hours? Jesus, Christmas'll be over by then!"

"You got it." Brendan stretched out on the couch and yawned, then wrinkled his nose. "What's that smell? Paint?"

Tony shrugged. "Mmmm, yeah." He stood in the hall, looking lost and disconsolate. His T-shirt was spattered with white powder, his hair pulled back in a sloppy ponytail. "I told you, I'm working on something. I just wanted to take a break and hear—"

"Forget it, Tony."

"But—"

"Good night, Tony."

That night his father came to him. At first Brendan thought it was Peter, but as the sound of footsteps grew clearer he recognized it unmistakably as his father's tread, that familiar pause as he went into the bathroom and after a minute or two returned to the hall, heading down towards Brendan's room. Brendan was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling where the soft mingled lights from the tree fluttered like blue and green and red moths. He couldn't wait, how could anyone wait? Surely it was morning now … ?

And yes, of course it was, because his father's shadow filled the doorway, just as it always had. Brendan started, then with a cry sat up. Joy scalded him, and amazement: because there he was, wearing the red L.L. Bean nightshirt he'd gotten for Christmas one year, its sleeves worn and hem frayed, his bare legs still muscular though the hair on them was grey now. His face, however, was young, the way it looked in old family pictures, the way it looked in Brendan's mind—and that was the other amazing thing, not just that his father should be here, alive, but that he was young. Brendan gasped with delight, realizing anew what he had forgotten since the last time this had happened: that people didn't really die, or even if they did, you could still be with them again, it didn't matter that they were dead after all! Relief poured over him like water and he shook himself, feeling the sheets sliding from his arms as he tried to get to his feet, to cross the room and hug him. Because his father saw him, too, it wasn't like it had been those last two years in the nursing home, he saw Brendan and recognized him and he was smiling, one hand half-raised in the familiar greeting that mimed tossing a baseball, the other stretched out to his son.

"Dad! Dad—"

But the words didn't come out. All the air had been sucked from him, and all the light too—the room was black again, or no, his eyes were closed, he could still see those phantom lights pulsing behind his eyelids and somewhere behind them his father stood, waiting, and all he had to do was open his eyes and he could see him, he could leap from the bed and in two steps he would be there, he would see him again—

But his eyes would not open. When he tried to cry out his throat closed and he could only grunt, horribly, thrashing at the bed and struggling to rise while his hands sank down and the darkness pressed upon his face like a door falling on him. He screamed then, and as the sound echoed around him he opened his eyes and found himself sitting up in bed. A narrow slab of light fell into the room where the door was cracked, then disappeared as it was flung open.

"Brendan?" Tony stood there in his boxer shorts, hair a wild nimbus around his face. "You okay?"

Brendan shook his head, then nodded. When he opened his mouth air rushed in to fill his throat, and he gasped.

"Jesus … I had a nightmare. Or—no—"

He ran his hands across his face, feeling how cold his skin was, and moist. "—just a—this dream. But I'm fine. Go—go back to bed. I'm sorry I woke you."

"I wasn't asleep." Tony remained in the doorway, his face creased with worry. "You sure you're okay? I thought someone was, like, breaking in or something."

"No, really, it was just a dream. I—I'll just check Peter. Go on—"

He stood shakily, the sheets falling to the floor around him. Tony moved to let him get by, and as he passed him Brendan paused, then put a hand on his shoulder. "Hey. Tony. Sorry I woke you."

"No prob, man." Tony smiled. In the half-light leaking from the bathroom his raggedy features looked gaunt, his hair more silver than grey; and for the first time Brendan thought, he's old. The notion shook him almost as much as the dream had. He stood there for a moment, gazing at his oldest friend as though trying to recall his name; and finally smiled back.

"Yeah. Well, 'scuse me—"

"Hey, you know what today is?" Tony called after him softly. "Christmas Eve!"

Brendan took a deep breath. "Yeah," he said, pausing to lean against the bathroom door. For an instant spectral lights flickered around the perimeter of his vision, red and green and blue, the shadow of a tree. He drew a hand across his face and winced. "Thanks. I—I remembered."