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I glanced back toward my house. With how excited Mom had been to make me talk to Buddy, I imagined she’d start spying out the window if I was out here any longer.

“Come on,” I said, quickly turning my back on my house and heading in the opposite direction. “There’s one not far.”

I didn’t wait to see if he’d follow, but when I heard his fast footsteps behind me, my nerves settled. Maybe I wasn’t forcing my presence on him after all. Maybe his smiling eyes were less mocking and more genuine.

I slowed as we approached a big group of people walking ahead, filling up the entire sidewalk, going at half speed. I didn’t blame them. They were admiring the Watsons’ display, which had turned their home into a life-sized gingerbread house—frosting dripping off the roof, candy walkway, graham cracker siding. Ryan and I walked around the group in silence, slowly sipping our drinks and looking at decorations we’d seen hundreds of times before. They hadn’t lost their magic, at least not to me.

The next house had a menorah in the window, framed by bright blue lights and a Santa Claus on their porch. Mrs. Goldberg was Catholic and her husband was Jewish. I was happy that they decided to represent both of their faiths in their decorations.

“What inspires you?” I asked Ryan as we kept walking.

“What do you mean? Like which decorations inspire me?”

“No, just in general. What motivates you to action?”

He raised an eyebrow in my direction. “What kind of action?”

“I don’t know,” I said, because I really didn’t. “I guess any? What makes you want to get up and get things done every day?”

“I didn’t realize I had a choice.”

I chuckled. “You could stay in bed.”

“My parents wouldn’t let me. I wouldn’t graduate.”

“So, fear? Fear inspires you?”

“I wouldn’t say that. Are you asking what I’m passionate about?” he asked, meeting my eyes. “What I like to do?”

“I guess I am,” I said. “It’s for my art class assignment.”

“To ask your neighbor what they’re passionate about?”

“To figure out what our inspiration is.”

“What’s yours?” he said.

“The decorations,” I said, gesturing around us. “The lights. This neighborhood. It’s magical.” We’d come to the Bennetts’ house—and they had one of the Christmas mice. I stopped and turned toward their yard.

When he saw what I was doing, he stopped as well. “There’s one here?” he practically whispered.

“There is.”

“Where?”

“You have to find it. That’s the fun part.”

“Is it easy to see?” His eyes scanned the yard.

“I mean, it’s not actual mouse size. It’s about the size of a small dog. Like the ones in my yard.”

“Is it lit up?”

“It’s in some light.”

“You’re really not going to help me?”

“I literally walked you to this house,” I said with a laugh.