Hall shrugs, not taking his eyes off his project.

I exhale a sigh. “How does a white elephant gift exchange sound?”

He tosses Fozzie over his shoulder and stands abruptly. “It only sounds like the most incredible thing ever.”

“Okay, calm down,” I say, but I’m smiling.

“But it’s got to be a proper white elephant,” he tells me, pacing now. “No conjuring. We’ve got to get the presents ourselves, properly. No magic.”

“Wait, what?” Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. “Never mind. I’ll go get the peanut butter.”

“Too late.” His eyes sparkle, and an ominous sensation slides through me. “Bettie, do you know what this means?”

“I’m truly afraid to ask.”

Hall spins, magicking himself up some sunglasses and a neon-green fanny pack. “Holiday road trip!”

*

Hall’s insisting we do this the proper way, building proper memories of the warm/fuzzy/hijinks variety, by forgoing magic for the entire day. Including teleportation. Sounds ridiculous to me—if one is capable of teleporting, why would one ever not teleport? “Use it or lose it,” I intone ominously as we shut the front door behind us. “Think about that, Hall.”

He smiles sweetly. “No.”

We pick our way over patches of ice to the red pickup. He doesn’t know how to drive it, but boy does he love sitting in front of various windows in the house with his forehead pressed to the glass, staring at that big, old-fashioned red truck with a Christmas tree poking out of the bed. Grandpa, who loves cars (he drives a ’56 Bel Air, blue as a tropical summer sky), can’t get over the fact that there’s no indication of the make and model anywhere.

“Kinda miss the onion carriage,” I muse, sliding into the driver’s seat. The carriage, along with the unicorns, evaporated on our first day here. My family believes I hired the horses and carriage for an elaborate stunt, all except for young Honeysuckle Lou, who climbed on one of the unicorns and flew on its back for six whole minutes. (“But Mom! I was flying!” “Sure you were, sweetheart.”) “Jeez, Hall, the smell in here.”

He sniffs. “What’s wrong with it?”

“I feel like I’m snorting candy cane dust every time I breathe.”

“New York Peppermint Patties,” he corrects. “This engine runs on them.”

“It’s just York Peppermint Patties, not New York. And of course it does.” I blast the heat, but even when our vinyl seats are nice and toasty, the air retains a sharp bite.

Hall carefully buckles himself into his seat, spreading a new scrapbook open across his lap. He will be documenting the day’s journey, writing our names in calligraphy across paper with foil swirls. Holiday ro-oa-oa-oa-oa-oad triiiip!

“I wouldn’t really call this a road trip,” I caution, wary of bursting his bubble. “We’re just going to go park in town and walk around. Where to first? There isn’t much local shopping, but we’ve got Jackson County Hunting and Fishing Depot, Teller City Market, Shahad’s Toy Shop, Gold Rush Bookshop, and Teller City Trading Company. Or if you’re in the mood for outdoorsy equipment, there’s Ski You Later and Keziah’s Snowmobile Rental.” I remember sledding on these hills when I was younger and involuntarily smile. Felix, Athena, Kaia, and I had fun together, once upon a time.