I refuse to be joyful. I haven’t been the most stubborn human on earth for twentysomething years in a row just to break that streak now.

“Psst.”

Hall has smoothly materialized at my side, syncing his steps with mine.

Ahead of us, Grandma is radiant, making up for all the emotions I’m attempting to strangle. Kaia has a little more pep in her step. And up front with Felix, Marilou sings off-key on purpose to make him laugh, wearing baby Adrian in a sling.

“Psst,” Hall whispers again.

I ignore him. I know what he’s up to—he’s only trying to put me in a good mood, and I won’t have it.

He leans in. Murmurs in my ear, “I’ve got a hamster in my pocket.”

My head swings. “You what?”

He slides a thumb into his pocket, stretching the fabric enough for a small, furry head to poke out, as well as two tiny paws.

There is a hamster. In his pocket.

I stare at him in exasperation. He grins, eyes lit up, and oh, what a nasty trick—I grin back, shaking my head.

“You’re something else.”

“I know. Her name is Hildy. You’ll take good care of her, won’t you?”

“Don’t you dare saddle me with a hamster.”

“Look! She loves you.” He raises her up to give my cheek a kiss, then stows her away again in his pocket. Damn, now I’m in a good mood against my will, and this is very unkind of him, and so very unfair. But it’s too late now, our arms brushing as we walk past Cheers Chocolatiers and its vintage mural of an apple-cheeked young woman in a bonnet and yellow summer dress, tasting a chocolate. Silver Mine Dining is aglow, plates and forks jangling in the kitchen as the back door opens and closes behind one of its workers, who walks briskly into the alley to throw out garbage. The roads are lined with lamps tied up with big red bows, old-fashioned clocks on posts, wreaths and multicolored lights. The sky’s silver-white with snow, bright without any sun, the shadows of houses falling across us in stripes long before we pass them.

Teller City is a strange little place for the great Bettie Watson to end up in. Small, charming, and utterly normal, just like Grandpa’s personality, with a long-closed Coca-Cola plant and a dance studio whose sign reads now dance away, dance away, dance away, all! Surrounding mountains like enormous chunks of rough white howlite, jagged edges scraping the sky. Neighbors are delighted to be serenaded, opening their doors as we pass by in our discordant parade. Some wave and shout our names. Some get out their cameras. A man who is probably college age proclaims his love for my grandmother, who laughs when Grandpa jokingly rolls up his sleeves to square up. Mary from Mary Had a Little Boutique waves at me, and an image strikes me out of nowhere, unbidden: my strange little cards on her store’s shelves, next to homemade soap and mittens. A description tag scrawled with Artisanal greeting cards by local artist Bettie Hughes.