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I take a small bite of turkey and try to breathe past the tightness in my chest.

“So,” Sylvie says brightly, sitting down at last. “Fox, tell us about your drive.”

I knew this question was coming, so I’m prepared.

“It was good,” I say. “Long. It was beautiful in Colorado, then I caught a blizzard through Ohio, so I stopped there for a bit.”

“You should have flown, sweetheart.”

“I needed the road.”

She pats my hand across the table.

I keep eating in neat, methodical bites, and I’ve made it through most of my turkey when the kitchen door crashes open.

Frosty air hits the room, preceding Finn.

His hair is a wild tangle. His cheeks are flushed red and his eyes are wide and glassy. I have to physically stop myself from getting up and wrapping my arms around him.

He doesn’t even take his coat off.

“Christmas is ruined!”

The whole table freezes, food halfway to their mouths. Sylvie is already half-standing, moving toward him with her arms out.

“Griffin, honey, what’s wrong?”

He gasps for breath. His usual composure is nowhere to be found. His eyes flick across the room and land on mine for the smallest fraction of a second, and then he blinks and looks away.

He starts talking about the gas leak that’s closing the town square for at least four weeks.

I keep my hands still on the table and pretend this is new news to me.

Henry puts a hand on Griffin’s shoulder. “Have some food, son. I’m sure it’ll all sort itself out.”

“Dad—”

“Eat first. We’ll figure it out.”

Griffin sinks into the seat next to Sylvie. He looks smaller than usual. His hair is still frozen against his scalp on one side.

Everyone starts eating again, but the mood is gone.

Finn doesn’t touch his food. He just moves things around with his fork like he’ll find the solution to his Christmas festival and market problem somewhere on the bottom of his plate.

“The Christmas market’s completely shot. All the vendor layouts were designed specifically for the square. The tree-lighting ceremony can’t happen in its traditional spot.” He puts the fork down, giving up on the pretense of eating. “The whole town is counting on these events,” he says, his voice getting rougher. “It’s not just about tradition. For some vendors, this is the income that’ll carry them through winter.”

I want to reach across the table, put my hand on his cheek, and say, “Look at me, Finn. Breathe.” I want to say we’ll figure it out. But I can’t do any of that.

Instead, I take another bite of turkey.

Henry is the first to speak, suggesting the festival be moved to the high school football field. Griffin shoots it down because of power-grid challenges, permits, and timing, since the field will be in use until the school’s holiday break.

Tyler offers splitting events between venues. Griffin shoots that down too because everyone drives into town, so splitting the events would create a logistical nightmare.

Every time an idea dies, I feel Griffin’s eyes flick toward me, but all I can do is carry on eating food that now tastes like cardboard, which is not a reflection of Sylvie’s cooking at all.

I feel Nikko’s eyes on me. I’m the one who keeps cool under pressure. I get the ideas, and he executes them. We’ve been a team since he was old enough to follow me everywhere.