“Like the sky,” I say, bemused. “Or snow, more like.”

Hall gently grasps my arm. “We know each other so well.”

“I think you know me a little better than I know you, actually. How did you come to be the Holiday Spirit?”

“I simply am.”

“Yeah, but where did you come from?”

“Nothing.”

I cut him an exasperated look. “I’m getting to know you so much better already. Where do you draw your power from, then? There has to be some kind of source for it. That’s how magic systems work.”

“I draw my power from nothing and everything.” He’s writing down whatever we say, hand a blur across the page. Now he’s peeling off stickers. That’s how magic systems work is bordered by an iridescent Pegasus and a rabbit peering out of a top hat. “Now that’s pizzazz,” he murmurs to himself, smoothing the edges.

I give up. “Nothing and everything is such a non-answer.”

“No, this is a non-answer. The chicken parm sandwich from Domino’s. That’s where I draw my power.”

I laugh. “Chicken parm powers, it is.” We rattle over a long suspension bridge that, according to an elaborate overhanging sign, is called the Disbelief. Tufts of snow flurry directly into our path, like an airplane’s condensation trails in reverse. “Are you making it snow? You’re such a breaker of your own rules. I thought we weren’t using magic today.”

“I’m not doing anything,” he replies evasively, jabbing the radio button to drown me out with “Last Christmas” by Wham! I wonder who taught him to lie.

Probably Felix.

“This time of year is unbeatable,” he prattles on. “A sublime car ride through the snow—”

“Thanks to you, Elsa.”

“Listening to music. This is one of my favorite songs in the history of songs. The lyrics remind me of this really amazing book I read before I was corporeal. It was difficult to read physical books, since I didn’t have hands, but I listened to it on audio. What do you think?” He slides his sunglasses over his nose, then up on top of his head. “On or off?”

I glance at his thermos of coffee. “How many shots of espresso do you have in there?”

“What, this?” He holds it up. “None. This is Nestlé Coffee mate creamer. Spiced rum cake.” He drinks it till the last drop, then refills it by tapping its side. “I watched a commercial with two people drinking Nestlé Coffee mate spiced rum cake creamer together, looking quite sated, and I thought, ‘I must have that.’ Highly recommend!”

I’m howling. “You’re supposed to add creamer to coffee, not drink it by itself!”

“You want some?” He proffers it. I push it carefully away. Rocks and lumps of ice crunch under the tires, nothing to see but snow-dusted trees, the drab sky, and, to the right, Teller City nestled in the basin like a toy town. Hall takes pictures of the view on his gold Polaroid.

I glance his way. His sweater’s changing patterns every two seconds, but he doesn’t seem to be aware of it. When we left the house, he was wearing one with cats sitting in gift boxes in outer space, shooting laser beams from their eyes. Before we were out of my grandparents’ driveway, it was Santa’s boots sticking out of a chimney. My attention bats around between his shirts and the road, observing the procession: Get lit, with a Christmas tree. Merry Christmas, Ya Filthy Animal. Johnny from Schitt’s Creek, saying Ah, see, the Christmas spirit is all around us.