“Quinn, don’t move.”
Quinn freezes on the spot.
The cloak gives me powers. It should keep us shielded. Hobart said as long as Quinn stayed close, he’d be protected, too. How can the dog see us now when it didn’t even flinch as we passed it before?
Then again, how could I backhand the last guy with a frying pan?
Shaking away the question, I focus on my newfound night vision, which allows me to notice that one of the ceramic canisters on the counter to my right is labeledDOG TREATS.
“Distract him,” I say.
Quinn widens his eyes at me. “First you tell me not to move. Now you tell me distract him. How do you expect me to do both?”
“Quinn, please listen.” I hope I’m conveying the seriousness here. “When I say go, jump up onto the counter ledge there. I’m going to grab a T-R-E-A-T from the jar over here. I will rush to the sliding door over there and chuck it into the fenced-in yard.”
Quinn shakes his head. Sticks to his spot.
“You have to trust me, okay?”I just don’t trust you right now. Quinn’s words from earlier pierce me again. The same way his terrified eyes do right now. I push through the hurt. He needs me toomuch. “Keep looking at me. I got you. I won’t let anything happen to you. On the count of three. One. Two.Three.”
I lunge to the right. Thankfully, Quinn goes left. The dog predictably follows Quinn with a bark I hope doesn’t wake the whole house. Then, the dog hears the clang of my hand in the familiar jar. At the back door, with a handful of biscuits, I struggle with the lock but get it open in enough time.
Whoosh.
Cold air invades the warm house. I chuck the treats onto the deck and shut the door behind the dog.
Quinn’s still atop the counter. He watches me with wide eyes. I offer him help down. Through my thick mitten, I can feel Quinn’s hand quaking. “You’re okay.”
“I was bitten as a kid,” Quinn says, voice wavering.
“I remember.” We had a lot of conversations about adopting a pet when we lived in our first apartment. Quinn would entertain a cat, but dogs were always out of the question. His skittishness was founded in real trauma that I’m seeing now in real time.
“It was a rottweiler.”
That part I didn’t know.How could I not know that? Did he tell me and I forgot?I guess it explains why he’s avoidant of Veronica’s astoundingly friendly black Lab, Luca, but he’s never gone sheet-white stationary like that around him.
Quinn closes his eyes and sags against me. Closing the gap between our bodies.
The golden bubble around me glows brighter with the contact. I sense myself getting stronger. As if the magic is responding to our nearness. To the way Quinn smells and breathes and lets me support him.
“Do you want to go back up to the sleigh?” I ask him. He hasn’t pulled his hand away from mine yet like he did earlier. It’s strange to see how dwarfed his hand is, cradled in my black leather mitten. My hands, since the cloak transformation, feel more like massive, brawny bear claws. I’m not quite adept enough to maneuverthem properly, but they’re just the right size to comfort Quinn it seems.
“No.” He snaps up straight. Takes his hand back. I wish he hadn’t. I don’t know how long it’ll be until he trusts me enough to let me that close again. I swallow the upset as my golden aura dulls slightly. “Let’s keep going,” he says.
When I enter what must be this family’s living room, I’m greeted by this gorgeous, real tree adorned with lights and ribbons, ornaments and candy canes. It brings me back to Christmases of my youth. Every year-round picture frame and trinket in my house had a Christmas counterpart. On the day after Thanksgiving, like clockwork, Mom would painstakingly transform our home into a winter wonderland. When she was finished, not a single decoration would be misaligned or out of place. The Hargrave brood runs on perfection. I wish I inherited that gene.
I move closer to this family’s tree with the sack of gifts. I recall the sad fake tree Quinn put up in our house this year—Target’s cheapest—decorated with basic, impersonal ornaments. None of the homemade, crafted-with-love creations littering the branches here.
Our starter house was meant to be a home. But maybe I wasn’t putting in the work to make it anything more than four in-need-of-some-TLC walls and a shoddy roof.
“Why don’t I set out the presents and you can go get a head start on those cookies?” Across the room, on a small end table, there is a decorative plate with three cookies on it. Beside the plate are a sweating glass of milk and, from this distance, what appears to be a white envelope.
Quinn nods. “Maybe the sugar rush will right me.”
I set out the presents one at a time. I’m careful to arrange them in a way that is pleasing. I want the kids in this household to rush downstairs and for their eyes to immediately light up with joy.
Once I’m finished, I walk over to where Quinn is nursing a red-colored cookie with white chocolate chips in it.
The scrawl on the envelope on the table is childlike and in crayon. The note inside, this part written in pencil, reads:
