It’s his ability to be so open, I think, that loosens the lid on my jar of pleasantries that I normally keep airtight. “I’m glad to be spending the day with you, too,” I tell him, then clear my throat. It’s ridiculous that exposing sincere feelings makes me blush. “I hope it’ll be everything you want it to be.”

“This is my first holiday as part of a family. The white elephant gift I contribute must be absolutely perfect—I’ve been waiting to do this for years and years and years.”

I sober right up. I hadn’t thought about that—how much he’d be looking forward to this. He’s been supplying the world with holiday cheer but wasn’t able to participate in it, watching the fruits of his labor from a distance. This is the Holiday Spirit’s first real holiday celebration, and out of any family he could be spending it with, he’s getting the Watson-Hughes clan. It’s tragic. I genuinely feel sorry for him.

I inwardly pledge to make it up to Hall somehow. Give back a little bit of that joy he’s trying so hard to imbue in me.

“What else do you want to do, now that you’re corporeal?” I ask.

Hall has a GOALS planner devoted entirely to this. “Go on a roller coaster with a friend. Share a Bloomin’ Onion at Outback Steakhouse. Take a picture pretending to hold up the Leaning Tower of Pisa. Go see the Red Sox play. Volunteer at an animal rescue. Solve a crime. Go to adult magic camp again.”

“Again?”

“I went a few times, but that was before I had hands.” He acquires a wistful, faraway look in his eyes as he flexes his hands. We both have a silent moment of appreciation for them—Hall for their functionality and me for their appealing gracefulness, slightly roughened up from all the new use. Furthermore, it strikes me that he has kind hands. Which is nonsensical, hands can’t be kind, but that’s exactly the right word for them anyway. “I need a purple velvet cloak first, so that I look the part. Modern performers gravitate more toward sequins and feathers and flash, but I prefer the classic look—waistcoat, white shirt with a stiff collar, slicked-back hair, and a jewel-toned cloak with a deep hood for extra mystery. I know a million tricks already. I’ve been practicing them with my invisible tendrils of self, waiting for an opportunity to be able to hold cards.”

“Can’t you conjure up a purple velvet cloak?”

“When it comes to street magic, I can’t cheat. It’s against the code.” He returns to his list, which goes on forever. “I want to stand under the stars on a balcony. Play mini golf. Go dancing in Paris. Make a smoothie while blindfolded. See a movie in a theater.”

A lot of these are surprising to me. These are . . . very human desires. I would have expected a list like (1) Make a snowman. (2) Make another snowman. (3) Turn self into a living snowman.