Her mug is almost too hot to touch, but still, Isabelle wraps both hands around it, imagining the heat traveling up through her arms and warming her entire body. She has eaten most of the whipped cream from her cocoa with a spoon, and her mouth is watering for the cocoa itself, but she knows that it is still too hot, and that if she takes a sip too soon her tongue will burn and feel scaly for the rest of the day. Despite the warmth beneath her hands, Isabelle shivers; she is chilled from a heatless night in the country.

“Coffee’s warming me right up,” she hears her father say. She does not look up from her cocoa. The steam from it curls in a beautiful pattern-less way.

“Not me,” her mother says. “That was one of the most unpleasant nights I’ve ever had.”

“It was cold,” her father agrees. “Fucking furnace. I don’t know how many times we’ve had to get that thing fixed, and still, without fail it craps out on us at least once a winter.”

“I told you last time,” her mother says. “Instead of paying someone to fix it when it’s just going to break again, get a new one.”

Isabelle has heard this conversation before.

“You might be right,” her father agrees.

“Of course I’m right. It’s what I’ve been saying all along. And you better do it soon. It’s cold now, but I heard next weekend is going to be positively arctic.”

“Well, it’s a good thing we’ll be at my mother’s then.”

There is a brief moment of silence.

Ruth sips her coffee. “God, I can’t believe it. Is it already that time?”

“A week from Monday,” Wilson says. “Christmas Day.”

“If I didn’t know better I’d think Christmas came at least twice a year.”

Isabelle tests a tiny sip of her cocoa; it is the perfect temperature now, cool enough to drink and hot enough to trace as it travels down her throat and to her stomach. It makes her hungry; she scans the bakery for their waitress, hoping that soon she will come to take their order. Usually, Isabelle gets chocolate-chip pancakes whenever they come here for breakfast, but today she is going to get a breakfast sandwich, the same one that her parents always order: fried egg, a sausage patty, and American cheese on toasted rye. She took a bite of her father’s last time they were here and was surprised by how much she liked it. Her mouth waters in anticipation.