Templeton

The first two chapters of a story about a man exploring the demons of his past.

Chapter 1

One-Two-Three.

Deep breaths. In, then out. The smells of fall fill the air. Sweet and cool. Ahead, the trail I'm running down bends around a small creek. It's just me and nature here. No loud noises. No screaming children. No flickering fluorescent lights.

I glance up at the sun, close my eyes, and smile. Its warmth sends a tingling sensation up my back. These runs always help with stress.

My watch vibrates. Time to take a breather. The wind picks up, sending leaves scattering all around me.

Then I hear it.

A high-pitched yip.

My eyes dart from left to right.

"You stupid fucking dog!" I hear a man yell, just up the trail.

Then another yip, this one more desperate and scared. A betrayed sound.

From somewhere deep, somewhere meant to remain hidden, a deep hatred bubbles up. My heart begins to throb.

I charge up the trail and as I round a corner, I see them. A middle-aged man, hiking gear like mine, and a medium-sized brown dog. It's low and cowering, tail between its legs, yipping up at him.

His leg pulls back for another kick. Images of Joe doing the same thing flare behind my eyes. My vision narrows. Hair stands on my neck. Rage boils behind my eyes. Copper and iron fill my mouth. Things start to happen. I'm only aware of flashes, few and sparse.

A fist pulls back. Mine.

Pain flares in my knuckles.

I'm on the ground, rolling with him.

A knee slams into his ribs.

My left eye winks out. Pain radiates from it.

Someone screams. Not me.

I feel my hands tighten around something soft.

Fingernails dig into my wrists.

Things come quicker now. The flashes forming into a single string of consciousness.

I'm on the ground, on top of the man, both hands tight around his neck.

You need to stop, Frank--right now.

I ease up. There's a moment of quiet, just our breathing and the whimpering of a dog.

"Let. Me. Go..." the man sputters out.

I pull back, then hop up--ready. A flash of Joe, the last time he tried to hit me. The man just lies there, looking up at me and gasping for air.

My eyes land on the dog, curled tight, looking from the man to me. The anger that was leaving me starts to return.

"Go..." I growl. "Leave the dog,"

He stands slowly, looks down the trail, then back at me, and dusts himself off. He takes a few steps backward down the trail to make sure I'm not going to attack again. Then he turns and runs.

The adrenaline begins to wane. I sag and fall to my knees. After a moment my attention goes back to the dog. My left eye, still blurry and throbbing.

"Hey, buddy," I hold my hands up and scoot toward it.

It lets out several high-pitched whines and tucks up tighter. A tear wells up and runs down my cheek. I pause and wipe my face.

With a frown I take my backpack off, reach in, and pull out my bag of jerky.

"It's okay, I'm not going to hurt you," I whisper, holding out some jerky.

It sniffs and takes the piece, devouring it. I reach out a hand, slow and steady, and rest my fingers on its head. It trembles for a moment, then rushes between my legs, hops on my thigh, and licks my face.

I smile.

It's safe now.

I rub my eye and pain blossoms. That's going to be hard to explain at work. But it doesn't matter. I look down at his brown coat and happy eyes. He's what matters.

"You want to stay with me tonight, little guy?"

He whines and excitedly hops around.

"Come on then!"

And just like that--like two old friends reunited--we take off down the trail.

Huff-Huff-Huff.

He pants beside me. Cool wind rushes through my hair. Do I have everything I need for him? I can use that one soft blue blanket to make him a bed for the night. Then, tomorrow we can head to the shelter and have him checked out.

I tear a piece of jerky off, chewing, and hand him the rest as we run down the trail.

At my car, I remember the bag of kibble and cat food I'd meant to drop at the shelter. Perfect. I hold the passenger door open, and he hops right in, tail wagging. I head around to my side, and with a thunk of my door, a twist of the key, and a lick on my cheek, we're off.

"What am I going to call you, buddy?" I ask him. And then it hits me.

Buddy.

"How does Buddy sound?"

He tilts his head and looks at me. He likes it.

Shifting into park at the apartment complex, I reach down and pet him. His fur is so soft, just like Tem's was...

Frowning, I wipe my face again.

"Let's go, Buddy," I whisper as I grab the bag of kibble and cat food, and we head to my apartment. Buddy trots right in, like he's always lived there.

"Frank!" Mrs. Crabtree scolds.

My shoulders rise.

"You know no pets are allowed."

I look over at her grasping her walker. She's scowling, the lines on her face exaggerated and bitter. My heart sinks. She's right.

"I know, Mrs. Crabtree. I'll take him to the shelter tomorrow."

Her expression softens.

"You're a sweet boy, Frank. I won't say anything if he's here for just a night or two. But I'm allergic. It's why I moved here. You understand?"

I nod.

Buddy pops his head out of my door and pants. Mrs. Crabtree gives Buddy a soft look, then smiles at me and heads into her apartment.

For tonight at least, I have a friend.

Inside, I set out the blanket, pour him a big bowlful of kibble, a bowl of water, and give him a pat as he crunches on his dinner. My eyes go from the portrait on the wall back to Buddy. Emotions stir. Dangerous ones.

I sniff and try to take my mind off it.

Don't forget the kitties, Frank.

Back outside, two more bowls in hand, I make my way to the tree line. Momma and her babies are in the crate I got for them.

Mew! Mew! Mew!

Kneeling, my eye throbs, but I manage a smile as I place the two bowls down. Momma stands and rubs her head into my hands. Her dappled fur is so fine and soft. She leans into the pile of mewling kittens, grabs the black one by the scruff of its neck and gently sets it in my palms.

"Oh no you don't. You know I can't, Momma."

The kitten looks up at me, trembling, and mews. I rub my thumb over its head and gently place it back down with the others.

"I'm sorry. Food and water are the best I can do. The shelter's full."

Momma crunches on her food.

I stand and head back to the apartment.

Fumbling with the keys, I see her rounding the corner--and I freeze, like it will make me invisible.

Stacy.

She talks too fast and always stands just a little too close. Normally, she never gives me time to think of what to say before she's fired off another question. And she's so pretty all my words leave me when I look at her. Especially her blue eyes. I get lost in them sometimes.

"Hey, Frank!" she chirps, voice bright, cracking somewhat, her expression tight.

Is she nervous? Over me?

"How was work today?" She pauses for my response, but I can't find one. I squint my left eye and wince.

Seeing my hesitation, she continues, "I hope that lady from HR didn't give you more crap."

We pause to watch an ambulance pass. The siren's pitch drills into my spine.

She looks back at me, a calmer smile on her face now. "Did you tell her what I told you to tell her? She's such a bitch to you."

She looks down at her hands, at something wrapped in wax paper. "Oh! Here, I made some extra banana bread, burned the first batch--tricky recipe," she holds it up, and I take it.

This isn't her normal barrage, it's more subdued. I take a moment to process everything.

How am I today? I look in the window and see Buddy, snoozing on the blanket. I'm good, I guess.

The smell of her banana bread suddenly reminds me of Christmas. Sweet and soft.

"Is that a puppy in there?" she asks, peering in my window. Then, her gaze falls to the tree line, where Momma and her kittens are tucked away in their crate.

"Hey, Stacy," is all I manage. I try to make eye contact--trying to be polite--but I hold it too long. Her eyes swirl like blue marbles, so pretty...just too much. They flick down to my mouth before she smiles again. I look down at my hand, suddenly aware of my breath.

I just want to get in my apartment. Where it's quiet. Predictable. Comfortable. I focus on the keys, searching for something--anything--to say.

She beats me to it, steps in closer and places a hand on my arm. A little jolt runs up it at her touch.

She's too close, like always. There's a hopeful kind of energy to her closeness--almost intimate. Her perfume's nice, like flowers. It's the kind of floral my mom used to wear. Her shoes look soft and comfortable, simple. I focus on them to slow my mind.

"You're wearing that Star Trek shirt again, nice. You know that's one of my favorite shows? You like the newer shows or the older ones?" She asks, tilting her head. Then her expression turns to shock.

"Oh God, what happened to your eye, Frank?"

Come on, Frank. Get it together.

It's so hard to think with her that close. My eyes dart back up into hers. Behind my eyes, something electric stirs. She likes Star Trek?

But--first--she asked what happened to my eye.

"My eye? Oh, I uh... fell while on a run earlier. Going to be fun explaining it to everyone at work," I say rolling my eyes, the left one twinging in pain.

Stacy's smiling, but her expression shifts to something hard to read.

Sympathy?

Her phone starts buzzing, but she ignores it.

"That's awful, Frank," she says. Her voice softens, her face shifting again, something I still can't place.

She leans in and whispers, "What about the puppy? You know pets aren't allowed."

Her face is just a few inches away from mine. A prickling sensation crawls up my neck. That coil in my stomach pulls tighter. I have to close my eyes to think of what to say. She smells so sweet.

"I know... Just fostering him for the night."

"It's sweet you know... How you are with animals," she pauses and lets the silence stretch out, "I won't tell...promise."

She thinks I'm...sweet? I swallow and my throat catches.

"Thanks," I mutter, finally sliding the key into the lock. The click feels like salvation.

"I should get dinner started," I lie. My voice feels far away. "Good seeing you."

The door opens. The familiar scent--detergent, dust, old carpet--hits me like a blanket pulled fresh from the dryer. My whole body relaxes a little.

I glance toward the living room wall, where his drawing hangs.

Templeton. Not just some cartoon sketch, it's realistic. Done in pastels, every hair of his coat shaded just right. His ears perked, one crooked, mouth slightly open like he's mid-pant, happy and alert. His eyes are what I'm most proud of. I spent days getting them right. He's looking off--not at the viewer--like he's watching something just beyond the frame. I liked that. It felt right.

I framed it last year. Matte black. Nothing flashy. I had to take it down once when I was spiraling, but it's back now. Right where it belongs.

Just seeing it settles something in me. Templeton. Still guarding me, in a way.

Stacy glances down at the floor. Her expression lingers, disappointment maybe? I wish I could tell.

"Okay, Frank," she says. "Get some rest."

Inside, I drop my keys on the kitchen table. Then I kick off my shoes. The soft hum of my apartment wraps around me. Warm lights. Faded couch. Familiar quiet. I stand still, breathing it in--every smell, every sound. Like a balm on a wound.

I look over at Buddy, still snoozing, and smile. Then down at the piece of banana bread Stacy gave me, confusion settling across my face. Was it a neighborly gesture? Or something more?

I take a bite.

Sweet. Soft. The walnuts give just the right resistance. Another smile breaks out across my face.

The calm is cut short. A siren screams past outside. Red and blue strobe lights dance across the walls; a sudden, jarring burst of light and sound. An intruder in my sanctuary.

Woof! Woof! Woof!

"Shh, Buddy. Mrs. Crabtree will--"

Thump-Thump-Thump.

She bangs on the wall, "Keep it down over there!"

Buddy whines.

I kneel down beside him and give him a hug.

"It's ok. I'll make sure you get a good person next time--"

I have to stop and wipe my eyes.

"Not one who yells and kicks, okay?" I sniffle and ask.

Not one like Joe.

When I let him go, he gives me a lick, then circles his makeshift bed, finding just the right spot before plopping down with a huff.

I head to the bedroom and pull on the same clothes I always wear at home. The shirt's full of holes, but the weight of it soothes me. The fabric is soft in just the right way, like I've worn the comfort into it over the years.

In the kitchen, I hover with the fridge door open, staring at the options. Buddy watches me with one eye. Should I order something? Or... no. I swing open the freezer.

They're lined up perfectly:

One. Two. Three... Seven.

Seven identical frozen dinners.

Just seeing them lined up like that makes me happy. Like all the chaos outside doesn't matter. I smile a little, grab one, and open it, feeling like a child unwrapping a Christmas present.

That was such a good night. I stand there for a long moment, remembering.

I didn't know what I had then--didn't understand I had everything. Each year since then has been paid for in small, almost imperceptible losses. They've added up. My world--a little smaller each time. I frown, looking at the frozen dinner. I miss them. Her smile and the softness of his fur. The warmth of their touch. I close my eyes and try to remember them. Templeton is there, vivid and real. But Mom is blurry. All I get is a wisp of what was. I don't even have any pictures of her.

Slam!

My fist hits the side of my head--quick, sharp, too familiar.

Those thoughts--dangerous. The hits always help. Like kicking a TV that's gone to static.

Buddy whines and trots over to my side.

"I'm sorry, Buddy. Sometimes that helps. It looks scary is all."

He huffs.

"Go finish your dinner," I say and point. He looks from me to the bowl. Then goes and crunches on his food.

I look down at my dinner, ready to go into the microwave. A slight smile hits my face as I remember the smell it makes when it's heating up. I chuckle and pop it into the microwave without reading the instructions. I know the timing by heart.

While it heats, I head to the living room and pour myself a drink. Bourbon. The cheapest kind they sell. Not because I'm broke. Not because I'm cheap. I just like the burn--the way the bottom-shelf stuff bites back. Like it means it. As I pour, I listen to the glugs it makes. Buddy watches, intently.

One. Two. Three? No--four tonight. I earned it.

I glance out into the living room. One whole bookshelf of vintage video games. Another devoted to DVDs.

On one shelf is a locked case.

Another shelf has every season of Star Trek, lined up in order, the spines crisp, unbent. A happy chill runs down my spine looking at them. I don't watch the discs anymore. I stream it now. Easier to keep my place that way, especially if I get too drunk to remember where I left off.

I turn on the TV. The menu picks up right where I stopped. The familiar hum of the starship engines fills the room. I've probably watched this episode a hundred times, but it never gets old. Nothing bad ever happens here. Not really.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

The microwave chimes. I grab the tray with practiced ease, and head to the recliner, settling in with my dinner and drink. Buddy hops up in my lap and lays down. My body begins to relax. Warm friend. Warm food. Warm show. The soft weight of my shirt. The bourbon's glow. I take a sip. The warmth spreads. The engine hum lulls me. Eyes heavy. I finish my meal, turn the TV off and just relax. Content and full. I don't remember falling asleep. One minute I'm thinking about the upcoming Comic Con and the next minute I'm dreaming.

Chapter 2

The next morning, as promised, Buddy and I head out of the apartment and make our way to my car. He jumps in, tail wagging, not understanding I plan to abandon him. My insides twist at the thought. I have enough saved up to pay for his boarding for at least a month. It's the only way to make sure he's safe.

Mrs. Crabtree slowly makes her way down to her mailbox and notices me. She smiles and waves. I wave back, but I can't find a smile for her, only a frown. She gets a determined look on her face and turns her walker in my direction.

I should have tried harder to smile.

As she approaches, I roll my window down.

"Good morning, Mrs. Crabtree."

"Good morning, Frank," she says, struggling to catch her breath, then stops and slides her walker to the side before bracing on my car.

"Whew, this old lady sure doesn't get around like she used to."

She leans in the window and peers at Buddy then smiles at me. Her perfume makes my eyes water.

"Are you taking him to a good shelter?"

Buddy whines, pulling my gaze from Mrs. Crabtree to him.

Frowning and petting him, I say, "Yeah. It's the one I volunteer at. I have some money saved up to board him there. It's safer than surrendering him."

"I thought you may do that," she says, then holds out her shaky hand before continuing, "Here, Frank. I feel bad."

I look down at her hand, then back up into her eyes, before reaching out. She places several twenty-dollar bills gently in my hand, then folds it closed.

Her touch makes me tense up.

Her gesture makes me tear up.

I've only ever talked to her in passing. This isn't earned, but I'll take it, for Buddy.

Her face softens at my tears.

"Don't do that, you'll make me cry. It's too early for that. I haven't even had my tea yet," she says, dabbing at the corner of her eye.

After a shared moment of silence staring into my hand, I manage to mutter, "Thanks... This means a lot..."

She stands, unsteady, and grasps for her walker, then replies, "Don't worry about it, Frank. I'd hate to lose you as a neighbor, but the way you are with animals..." she trails off, then continues, "Why don't you get a place that allows pets?"

She steadies and turns her walker to face me.

"I like it here. The trees. The closeness to nature. It's quiet, you know?"

She stops to think, then says with a smile, "Everyone needs someone, Frank. You never have friends over. Don't get me wrong, this old bird enjoys the quiet too," she pauses, a mischievous expression forming on her face.

Slowly, conspiratorially, she leans in and whispers, "What about that Stacy girl?" she asks with a wink.

I can almost hear a whoosh as my cheeks flare-up. Slowly, I shrink down in my seat hoping maybe it will hide me from the rest of the conversation.

Noticing my expression, she smirks and starts to turn her walker back towards her apartment.

"Okay, Frank, you and Buddy have a safe drive. I need to get a pot on the stove for my tea."

I take a moment, using my cold hands to soothe my burning cheeks. Buddy pants and sniffs my jacket.

"Alright, let's find you a person," I say, shifting the car into drive, and taking off toward the shelter. The drive there is nice. It's too early for the normal heavy traffic and honking horns. The passenger side window is cracked just enough to let Buddy sniff all the new and interesting smells. I sneak pets here and there; he responds with happy licks.

At the shelter I take a moment to steady my nerves for what I'm about to do to him.

One. Two. Three.

I begin to rock back and forth.

His whine stops me instantly.

"Sorry, Buddy, it helps when I'm overwhelmed."

I lean over and give him a big hug.

"I'll make sure nothing bad happens to you. I promise."

He leans into me. Like he's saying it's okay. That he'll be okay.

When we walk in, I see Sarah and my shoulders relax a little. She beams up at me, her face bright and full of sweetness. She's better with animals than anyone here. And she's fiercely protective of them.

"Frank!"

She does a little dance while running over, arms out for a hug.

Deep breaths. In, then out. I brace.

Her hug is soft and warm. And she always smells like strawberries. I do my best to hug her back, trying not to be awkward with my arms.

Buddy lets out a happy yip and spins.

"Who's this gentleman you've brought with you, Frank?" she says looking down at him, all smiles and good intentions.

"Buddy, he's a...rescue," I let the word hang there for a moment, then say, "I...uh, need to board him until he can find a good person."

She bends down, her necklaces jingling softly, and places a hand on each side of his head.

"Aren't you just the cutest little guy."

He licks her face.

"Oh my, not much of a gentleman though," she chuckles.

She stands and says, "You two are in luck. I happen to know a certain little nephew who just asked for a dog for his birthday."

Her words melt and soften the hard edges of the world, causing a warmth to spread through me.

"Really?" I whisper.

"Sure do, and this guy here would be perfect for him."

I kneel down and rub Buddy's neck.

"You hear that? We have a person for you. You two can look out for each other. Isn't that great?"

He licks me on the cheek. I rub my face in his fur one last time--he smells so good--and stand.

I reach into my pocket and pull out the money Mrs. Crabtree gave us and hand it to Sarah.

"Here...for the shelter."

"Oh, this is great, Frank!"

"I've also got a couple bags of food I need to bring in. Can't stay though; have to be at work in--"

I quickly bring my watch up.

Oh shit!

Thirty minutes and I'll be late.

I rush out the door to my car, then back in with the food.

"Sorry, got to go! Take care of Buddy!"

I speed so fast to get there, I manage to arrive fifteen minutes early. The sign reads: 'Sarant Group'. It's only a call center, but it feels like a prison. The front door clicks and swings open, then I'm swallowed into a sea of sharp sensations. Lights and sounds and smells. Some are good, most prickle at my brain in uncomfortable ways. I look down at the spot by my feet where Buddy would be if he were here and frown.

At my desk, my heart begins to slow. The rush to get here and the barrage of overwhelming sensations I wish I could ignore but can't, starts to diminish. I glance up at the clock. Ten minutes until I have to clock in. Twenty minutes until the phones go live. Pulling two soft foam earplugs from my shirt pocket and placing one in either ear, I rest my eyes in silence. Despite everything, at some point, I drift off and begin to dream of that night. The one where everything was perfect.

I need to get his ear right, the one that's crooked. It makes him look funny, but I like it. Templeton pants beside me, fresh from our run in the snow. His fur's still damp and smelly--sharp, like wet dog. I don't mind. He's still warm. I turn the Video Time Rental receipt I'm drawing on to get a better angle. I saved it, a memento from our first big adventure:

Captain Frankie, Templeton, and the Video Time Treasure.

I need to make sure I don't mess this up. The squeak of the marker hits my ears before that familiar smell fills my nose. With another stroke, it's there--our spaceship. The Enterprise. It's got bones in the cargo hold for Templeton and a button that makes loud dads go away.

I slide it over to show Templeton. He looks down at it, then back up at me. He likes it. I smile and kick my feet back and forth in thought. More green? Yeah.

"Can you believe it? His first words," Dad asks, gesturing towards me. "We were lying on the couch watching TV, then out of nowhere, 'I love you, Dad.' Just blurted it out. I was speechless. Me. Teared up a little too."

"He spoke to his stepdad before his own mother," Mom says. She's quieter than Dad, but Dad's always loud. Sometimes...very loud.

"Eh, I'm sure we'll be sorry," Dad laughs. "Probably won't be able to shut him up."

Mom looks over at me, "Yeah, I'm sure," she says, her voice flat.

That little feeling I get when I'm in trouble is back. I glance up at the dent on the wall. Templeton snuggles up to me. I smile, the feeling passing.

Drawing complete, it's time to bury this treasure.

Running down the hall, my bare feet make soft padding noises, and Templeton's claws click against the cold hardwood floor. I rush into my room. Everything here is just right. Toys lined up neatly. Bed made. Closet door open--

Wait.

I huff and stomp over to it, frustrated. You forgot to close the door, Frankie, I scold myself. I reach in and grab the shoebox--no, treasure chest, I decide. I place the drawing neatly into the Video Time Rental bag, fold it just right, and tuck it back in the box. Safe.

Closing the door this time, I head over to check on the Enterprise. It's still on my pillow. Engines purring, I imagine.

"Frankie!" Dad yells. It's not sharp, like when he's mad, but like when he wants help. I run down the hall. He's up in the attic, a box poking through the opening. The smell of dust hits, mixing with the pine needles from the tree.

"Here, grab this. And be careful, would ya? If you break any of those ornaments, you're gonna get it," he says, his voice isn't soft like the other day when I fell. I touch the spot on my head and wince.

With a grunt and all my strength, I manage to take the box. He looks down at me, asking with his eyes if I can handle it. I nod and set it gently on the floor.

"Okay, go play," he says.

I swing open the hall closet door and grab a board game, the one Mom and I play whenever she's home. Me and Templeton rush off into the living room, where she is. The tree is by the fireplace. Crackling wood and the scent of smoke and pine fill the air. It makes me feel safe.

Mom is on the couch, reading something. She's wearing that gown that's so soft. I love the way I feel when I look at her. It tingles. I set the board game on the coffee table and look up at her with pleading eyes.

"So, you want to play that one again," she says, sounding tired. She's always working. But this game always cheers me up; it'll cheer her up too.

I nod, smiling.

"Okay then, set it up while I go get us something to snack on."

She comes back with glasses of milk and two sandwiches--cut diagonally, perfect. Every piece of the game is in place, just right. She sits down on the couch, the springs giving that familiar squeak. And we play for a while. Quietly. Templeton snoozes by the fire.

"You know, Frankie, you could say some words for me too," she says suddenly. No emotion in her voice. I think for a minute, tapping my finger on my chin. But I don't have any words for her yet, only feelings. And they've always worked before. She probably needs a hug.

I stand and give her a big one. These are never hard with her. She's soft and always smells like flowers.

"Well, if you spoke to Joe, I guess you'll speak to me when you're ready," she says. Her jaw tightens. There's a smile on her face, but her eyes are already back on the board game.

I shrug, and we keep playing while Dad decorates the house. The sun is still out. Warm. Everything is soft and white from the snow.

Dad walks into the room and watches us for a moment, smiling wide. Then he heads to the cabinet where he keeps his special drink.

"Joe..." Mom's voice has that same warning she uses with me sometimes.

"Not tonight."

"Just one," he says, still smiling. "Gets me in the mood to decorate."

Mom doesn't say anything else. Dad pours the brown liquid into the same cracked glass he always uses for nighttime TV.

That feeling's back again, the one I get when I'm in trouble. It's small though. Mom's here. And Dad's been so soft lately. He walks out of the room with his drink, leaving behind the sharp smell.

Mom glances from the board game to her book.

"Alright, why don't you go play by yourself for a while so Mommy can read?"

We didn't finish the game. She was winning though. She always wins. That's okay. I just like playing with her.

The rest of the evening, me and Templeton play. Dad makes a few more trips to his special cabinet.

First, we play with our new spaceship. Then some toy soldiers. Then we see who's the fastest. We explode into the sitting room--laughs, barks, toenails scraping across hardwood.

Thud-Thud-Thud.

Joe's in the doorway. Quiet. His face is expressionless.

His hand lowers, slowly, to his belt. A metallic click.

A growl from Templeton--low. Serious. The kind he uses on strangers.

Joe turns and walks away.

I kneel beside Templeton and give him a hug. His fur is still standing. Then it passes with a lick on my cheek. He always knows what to do.

In the living room, I can't take my eyes off the tree, the blinking lights, the ornaments. Dad spent the whole evening on it. The blue ornament is my favorite. It's so pretty, with little silver sparkles that catch the lights from the tree. I reach out to feel its texture.

"Frankie..." Mom's voice has a hint of warning.

Ears burning with disappointment, I lower my hand. With a huff, I turn and hop onto the couch, snuggling up to Mom. She smells so nice.

And then, like the evening was already packed away somewhere safe, I watched the lights on the tree blink, slow and steady, like my breathing. First red, then blue, then green. I was curled up against Mom under a sheet that smelled like flowers and pine needles, where it was warm and soft. She was gently rubbing my back with one arm, the other resting on Templeton as he snored.

She was humming my favorite lullaby, the one she sang to me when I couldn't sleep. I never listened to the lyrics. I just loved the way her voice floated--soft and calm, like snow falling at night.

Templeton twitched beside me, his legs pumping like he was mid-chase. I reached over and touched his fur--warm, too still. Mom didn't notice, she just kept singing.

Dad was by the tree, adjusting the ornaments. He had been fussing with them all night, turning each so it faced into the room just right. The blue glass of one caught the blinking lights and sent them dancing across the ceiling.

I watched them flicker and wondered about Santa. How would he get inside? Did he know the difference between what I asked for and what I wanted? I wasn't worried, though. Everything seemed right. Safe. The world had stopped just long enough for us to breathe together.

Mom kissed the top of my head.

"I bet you're worn out," she whispered.

I nodded, even though I wasn't tired. Not yet. I looked up at the clock--1:54 a.m. Why were we up so late? It didn't matter, I just wanted to stay there wrapped in the warm light, in her voice, in the quiet ticking of the clock on the wall.

Tick. Tick. Thud.