Chapter 1

Scott was not doing any of the things that everyone in the entire city seemed to be doing. He was not picking up a last minute gift for someone who had been forgotten or who had decided they were going to show without advance notice. He was not getting just one more roll of overpriced paper, tape, or ribbon. Nor was he pulling his hair out because he was still obsessing over The Perfect Thing for a spouse or lover. All Scott was doing was grabbing a pack of cigarettes.

He’d known the city was going to be insane. He’d been more than aware that everything from gas station to grocers, from convenience store to department store, would be crawling with consumers. They’d show up if they had to run through snow or toe-step through icy puddles, with unfocused kids or bored, exhausted spouses in tow. It was if they couldn’t stop themselves; it was the one time of year when people became desperate to throw away hard-earned dollars on crap that would be gathering dust on thrift store shelves or overloading the already crippled waste-management system by the end of January.

And Scott hated them for it—every single purchaser, wrapper, bell ringer, and contemplator. Each and every kid staring ogle-eyed at something they didn’t need and wouldn’t want a week after they got it. He even hated the cranky retail workers who gave himattitude like he was one of the people giving them grief. Christmas shopping, visiting, partying, even walking the streets at this time of year, was a disaster waiting to happen.

So, he’d bought his groceries well in advance. He’d made sure the liquor cabinet was stocked back in November and picked up his dry cleaning several days ago. He’d been very, very careful. He’d told himself that this was the year he wasn’t going to get stuck in the middle of it all. This would be the year he could pretend that none of these people and none of their absurd, self-serving, meaningless traditions existed. And if the stocking-wearing, bell-jingling, coin-begging, bologna-sandwich-reeking freak that was playing the part of holiday elf at the corner hadn’t bumped into him, and knocked his all-but-full pack of smokes into the rain-filled gutter, Scott would have been able to call his plan a success.

Life wasn’t simple, and weird grown men who liked to dress up like dolls weren’t careful, and as such, there he was. At three-thirty on freaking Christmas Eve. Doing the exact thing he would rather die than do. Standing in a queue at a checkout counter on his way home from work.

He glared at the garish decorations, at the people running around in the nonsensical panic of doomsday preparation, and shook his head. Humanity was fucked—royally, righteously, and ridiculously fucked beyond any possible means of redemption.

Scott closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Whatever the future brought him, however he succeeded and with whomever he did it with, he would never allow himself to be part of this. It wasn’t the impossible reindeers and sleighs, or the overpriced talking dolls and iPads, either. It wasn’t the mass consumerism or the hyperactive reactions to unnecessary but well-marketed garbage. It wasn’t even the dismal concept of painting over a supposedly family-based, arguably religious holiday with the greedy brush of enterprise. It was the emptiness of it all; the pointlessness. It was the idea that something could be coveted so fiercely one day and be nothing but trash the following one. It was the way that Christmas brought to the surface everything Scott found intolerable about people: their fickle attitude, their ever-changing priorities, and their inconsistent devotion.

The line shifted in front of him; they all shuffled forward like corralled cattle, and Scott’s left leg unbuckled at the knee when a small body checked him from behind. He didn’t fall forward—it was easy to keep his balance—but he still couldn’t swallow back a growl of frustration when his basket also swung forward and clanged against the cart of the person waiting in front of him. He shook his head, faking an apologetic smile at the now-glaring person in front, and considered the basket with an accusing eye. He carried it only because he’d seen a dark roast coffee he’d tried last year at that time, fallen in love with, and had then been unable to get afterwards. A “holiday only” product, they’d told him. As if coffee somehow could be. So, he’d taken advantage of the find to pick up six bags. They’d stay fresh if he froze them. Probably. He was hoping they would, anyway. But he swore to all the gods he could name that if the damned line didn’t start moving at a reasonable pace, he really was going to drop the basket right where he stood and say “fuck it,” cigarettes and all. Maybe once and for all, in fact. That would serve them. He’d just quit. After all, he was already grumpier than hell. Why not throw some withdrawal drama on top of it? Oh yeah, that would make for a pleasant time off, indeed. That would be just perfect—

A flump into the basket cut short Scott’s internal ranting. He frowned and turned to glare at a little boy who immediately broke into a giggle. As if the laugh were contagious, a slightly taller but otherwise-carbon-copy image of the boy also started up, and the two of them stood there, tittering like Pan mid prank.