Wilson is putting a string of lights on the Christmas tree for the second time tonight; the first string had taken him a good forty minutes, and then when he’d plugged it in he’d discovered that one faulty bulb had put out the lights on the entire string. He tested this second string before putting it on the tree. He is careful to space the lights as evenly as he can, but he has to work quickly so that there will be time to eat and to decorate the tree before Isabelle goes to bed. He started the first string of lights at the top of the tree, but this one he started at the bottom, just to try a new technique, and the whole process seems to be moving more easily this way, for whatever reason. He is pleased by his discovery—already he is more than halfway finished, high enough up along the tree to have to use the stepladder he brought up from the cellar along with all the decorations. Slowly, carefully, he leans out to drape the string of lights over the farthest branch he can reach without moving the ladder.

“They’re totally uneven.”

Wilson startles; he drops the coil of lights and grabs for the top of the ladder, which is at his knees. “Jesus!” he says. “You startled me.” He turns around, his heart thumping. Ruth stands in the doorway, one hand on her hip. He comes down off the ladder and stands back to look at his work. The lights look fine to him. “What do you mean they’re uneven? Where are they uneven?” he demands.

“Look at them, Wilson, they’re all over to the left.”

“What do you mean they’re all over to the left?”

“I mean they’re all over to the left. Come here. Come where I’m standing.” Wilson obeys. “See?”

From this angle, there does seem to be a greater concentration of lights to the left; Ruth is right. “Yeah,” he says. He sighs. “Okay, I’ll do it over. Round three. I’m getting hungry, though. You order yet?”

“No, I didn’t order, Wilson,” Ruth snaps. “I can’t find the fucking menu anywhere in that kitchen.”

Wilson opens his mouth to fire back, but stops. There is something in Ruth’s eyes that gives him pause; they are deep and troubled. And after the breakfast the two had eaten together, alone, she had seemed in an okay mood. She had complimented him on their tree, hadn’t said a word about drying needles or fire hazards. He looks at his wife. She bites her lip and takes a long, trembling breath. He looks down the hall toward Isabelle’s closed door. He doesn’t ask what happened. “I’ll do it,” he says, because he’s not sure what else to say. There is too much else to say. “I’ll order.”