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“Hey,” I say, my tone level. I grab enough roast beef and cheddar sandwich halves for both Scarlett and me. “I’m Nate.”

“I know who you are,” Clifford says, not unkindly. “The program booklets. All our bios are in them. I looked you up. Great whale photos on your socials.” I pretend to understand as he pats his chest. “I’m Clifford. You just grabbing lunch now? Where ya been?”

“Had to take a call.”

“Busy man. I imagine the life of a whale-watching captain isn’t dull.”

Dammit, Scarlett.

“People love to see the humpbacks in spring. We get booked up pretty fast,” I say, the lie rolling off my tongue quickly. It’s the one thing that’s gotten easier about this job over time: becoming a better liar.

I add a few bunches of grapes onto my plate, remembering what Scarlett said about befriending the other Santa Wannabes. I guess now’s as good a time as any.

“Hey, this morning,” I start, “you said something about Radio City? Does someone from there normally judge? I’m new this year.”

“Oh, welcome! I’m going on seven years myself.” Clifford loads up on unripe honeydew slices. “From what I heard, the Con cut the cord. No more Santa of the Year cameos. It was a dream of mine to be on that stage. I’m so bummed they’re no longer doing that.”

“Yeah, that would’ve been… cool,” I say, moving toward the chips.

“Hand me one of those, will you, please?” Clifford asks. I pass him a bag of jalapeño-flavored chips. “Between that, the whole livestream thing with all the breaks and performances, and the totally new competitions, the vibe is different. I trained all year for the light-stringing relay.” He bites into one of the honeydew slices. “This year’s less of a wholesome Con and more like we’re all being used to make people a whole lotta money. It’s weird, Curly. I don’t know.”

“That’s rough, sorry,” I say.

“Thanks.” He pats my shoulder in farewell, stopping to add, “If you wanna join me and a few Santas for lunch, we’ve got a seat for you.”

His invitation affects me more than I’d expect it to. “That’s really nice, but I’ve got to get this to my… elf,” I tell him. “Hey, what’s with the nickname?”

Clifford chuckles. “I have a hard time remembering names of people I meet, so I try to find a detail about them that I admire. Your beard has the nicest curls of anyone here. Don’t tell Wigs.” He points to a woman across the store. “She does hair on Broadway.” He shrugs. “The nicknames kind of stick. Does yours bother you? I can stop, or you can pick your own.”

I can’t help but laugh. Clifford and I, we’re not so different. “You know what? Doesn’t bother me at all.” At least, not anymore. “I kind of gave you a nickname, too.” At his curious expression, I tell him.

Clifford laughs out loud. “This isn’t too far off from what I normally wear, so you’re not wrong. You should see my scrubs.” He points to the end of the table. “Don’t forget your bag. The cookie’s pretty good. See ya around, Curly.”

Clifford heads back to his lunch group while I grab a couple bananas and find the gift bag with my name on it.

When I get outside, Scarlett’s thanking the head of the bomb squad. She rushes over to me.

“Did they find something?” I ask.

“White phosphorus and nitroglycerin… in twenty presents.”

I cough up the bite I just took.

“Just a little sprinkle and a splash in each,” she adds.

“Sadistic Santa’s messing with us. He’s trying to throw us off,” I say.

“A wild sleigh chase.”

“Or they’re cookie crumbs to the real thing.”

“The threat is no longer just pretty words on an invite,” Scarlett says. “Those ingredients are no joke. The presents—all of them—are evidence now. We shouldn’t need warrants. This a real threat to public safety.”

“We need to get those other presents back,” I say.

Scarlett nods. “They’re taking what we have to the lab, but with our limited time and resources, we can’t wait for them to scan hundreds of presents for fingerprints. We need to find another angle.”

“Let’s get the dogs upstairs and have them sniff everyone. They’ll find who it is.”