He’s waving the poinsettia in front of him like a sword. “Get away from me, woman. This isn’t your business.”

“Jonah, I got your wallet back home. You didn’t bring it. Remember? It’s tucked nice and safe in the dresser where you left it.” Mema has one foot on the bottom step. Anything could happen now. I start to rock back and forth.

I feel Mom’s hands on my shoulders.

Grandpa looks confused, and then he looks at Mema and back toward me and Mom.

And like a switch flipping, he starts to cry. I’ve never seen him cry in my entire life. Not even a tear when he tore his thumbnail off hammering rusted nails out of the fence. His crying hurts me worse than seeing all the bruises and bandages.

“Come on now,” Mema says.

He takes her hand.

The pastor takes the poinsettia. But something happens in the shuffle and somebody knocks into the candles.

There’s a spark, and a root of flame shoots up the side of the podium like ivy.

Evelyn screams.

Somebody near the exit pulls the fire alarm.

A man in a green plaid jacket—I recognize him as one of the greeters—runs in with the fire extinguisher and douses everything and everyone: the podium, the poinsettias, Grandpa, Mema, and the pastor. The air’s full of smoky chemicals and it smells like wet carpet.

Even though the fire’s out, everybody files into the night in a cloud of smoke and dust. My grandparents are white from head to toe like ghosts.

When the fire engine finally arrives, it’s got nothing to do but wail its sirens. Its lights turn the crowd red, then white, then red again. We could be a scene from The Walking Dead.

Mom looks like she’s about to cry.

“ ’Tis the season,” I say to distract her, but my voice cracks at the end.

It works, though. She shakes her head and rolls us out of the spotlight and to the van.

“Too soon, Ellie. Way too soon.”

5 Merry Christmas