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When I get to the festival grounds, the parking lot is already packed. Families are everywhere, with kids running around with cocoa mustaches. The air is thick with the scents of hot cider and gingerbread. A little snow is starting to fall, but this is Vermont. It would take a blizzard to keep everyone away today.

Everyone I pass wants to talk to me.

Mrs. Peterson tells me the wreath stall has completely sold out and she’s started taking orders for the new year. Mr. Barlow claps me on the shoulder and says this is the best festival in twenty years. Marge Harding tells me she actually prefers the farm site to the town square because there’s more room to breathe.

By the time I reach the food tent, my face hurts from smiling.

Bastian and Taylen are at the corner of the food tent with hot ciders in their hands, standing very close together.

My parents are with them. Mom is holding a cup with both hands and Dad is next to her, arm around her waist.

Bastian sees me first and raises his cup.

“Merry Christmas Eve!” I call, walking over.

“Merry Christmas Eve, little brother.”

Dad puts a hand up and squeezes my shoulder as I reach them.

“There he is. The man of the hour.”

“Dad.”

“I mean it. We are so proud of you.”

Mom’s eyes are shiny. “Finn, really. This whole town is talking about what you, your brother, and Taylen pulled off.”

I put my arms around both of them. Hugging isn’t something we do often, but they both hold on.

“Love you both,” I say into Mom’s shoulder.

“Love you too, sweetie.”

When I pull back, Bastian is watching me with his cup halfway to his mouth.

He tilts his head.

“You look suspiciously relaxed, little brother. Festival stress finally break you completely?”

I laugh.

“Tonight is going to be the first real sleep I’ve had in weeks. Everything’s handled. No work until after Christmas when we take this whole thing down. Though don’t count on me showing up on time for Christmas dinner tomorrow. I might actually hibernate until the new year.”

“That’s fair enough,” Bastian says.

Taylen catches my eye over the rim of his cup.

He tips his head to the side of the tent. I follow him to the quieter corner near the coat stand.

“Finn, are you okay?” he asks, searching my face for clues that I’m telling the truth.

“I’m okay. I’m actually… I think I’m okay.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I’m going to talk to Fox tonight.”

He nods slowly. Then he narrows his eyes.