I think of Eileen’s sad pink Christmas tree and begin to argue that my spirit level is satisfactory when he adds, “My holiday magic is yours for the using until you’re adequately filled with spirit of your own, remember.”

I close my mouth. Turn his words over in my mind.

“Your holiday magic . . . is mine for the using? Mine? As in, I wish for something and you just make it happen?”

My mind wipes blank, like a giant white void. Then it begins to fill up—with Alexander McQueen jumpsuits and five-thousand-dollar shoes, and canapés, and an upgraded phone. I envision the Watsons’ Christmas tree hidden behind boxes and boxes of presents I can’t afford.

“I’m so pumped,” he’s chattering. “Been dreaming about getting an opportunity to try out some really neat stuff for ages! And by ages, I mean literally since the Neolithic period, when I was commonly referred to as the Spirit of Winter Solstice; then later on, Yule. Some have even called me a winter god. Before I was Hall, short for Holiday, I was Hall, short for Holly King.” He puffs out his chest at this. “A long time ago, holiday spirits were allowed to come and go physically from our plane of existence to yours, but it ended up being too chaotic and that’s why the legislation was introduced. Spirits would come to earth and start feeling differently about their role—they’d start to reconsider who they were, then become confused about what they wanted or who they were. Or, they’d go overboard in their magic-spreading, and that’s how you ended up with flying reindeer, which at one point was the shenanigans of some overexcited spirit. I’ve personally never mingled physically with humans before, but ever since I learned about the legislation’s typo, I’ve been hoping and waiting for someone to activate it. I think I could make great strides here, providing joy.”

“Is that your purpose or something?”

“Exactly. Before I came here, I was just floating around as an incorporeal mass of pure joy, shining down on the world and making the humans I passed over feel joyful, too. But now I can really get in there, you know?”

“How long are you going to be down here ‘providing joy’?”

“For as long as you need it.”

“And how will you know when I no longer need it?”

He shrugs. “Not sure yet. I think I’ll know when I know. Your holiday spirit is a miserably low one point five out of ten on the Holiday Scale.”

“Listen, you. I’m a ten at everything.”

“If your number stays low,” he continues, “then I could end up hanging around here forever.”

A forever filled with Valentino handlebags. No one will be able to accuse me of Photoshopping my lifestyle ever again. “You’re right, I’m super miserable. Let’s get started on the holiday magic right away.”

I need to cast about a billion and one wishes, then find a way to get rid of him. I cannot be responsible for this man-shaped mass of sugar who was probably created in a Brach’s candy laboratory. I’ll use him for my own ends, and then we can see about forever.