The tips of Clark’s ears reddened. He hadn’t even noticed a closed sign. Was he really so entitled that he just waltzed in and assumed he’d be served?

“No.” Kate inserted herself into her friends’ conversation. Calm before the storm. “We can go back to Woodward.”

Oh, no. That sounded like trouble. To Clark’s knowledge, the kitchen hadn’t been stocked since the last time his uncle visited the place. What was she planning to feed him? Canned chicken and bagged rice?

“What’s at Woodward?” he asked, failing to hide his suspicion.

“You’ll see,” Kate replied.

“I’d really like to know…”

“You’ll see.”

He swallowed hard as the town passed by around him. Possibilities ricocheted against the walls of his skull. Was she going to make him go into the woods and kill a wild turkey or put him on a cabbage soup diet? Television ads around this time of year and NPR podcast sponsors assured him everyone ate instant stuffing and probably turkey for their holiday meal, but having eaten grilled cheese or zucchini lasagna on this day the last three or four years, he couldn’t be entirely certain.

“I don’t like surprises.”

“Really?” Emily snarked. “You seem like such a zany, seat-of-your-pants kind of guy.”

The burn effectively silenced Clark. No one was going to take his side in this. The urge to retort pried open his jaw, but when nothing came to mind, he closed it again. The board room at Woodward Headquarters had sharpened his wit, sure. Only no one there dared to take jabs at him. He mostly swung his verbal sword in their direction, not the other way around.

Knowing his own way back now, he turned into the town square. Without the festival, the streets opened themselves to cars again. In Dallas, the people would have thanked him for giving them the streets back, but not in Miller’s Point. Driving through the square gave off an almost eerie, end-of-the-world vibe. Half of the decorations were gone—most likely taken down to be strung up in his house—and the sidewalks sat empty and unused. The tree, a monstrosity of fir and ornaments he couldn’t even begin to calculate a cost for, lorded over the square, dark and unlit. Eerie, even for someone who hated this holiday and everything it stood for. The silence probably didn’t help. Clark usually drove to NPR and various podcasts about business and finance, but after they’d asked for Christmas music he’d panicked and said he preferred to concentrate on the road.

When they started talking again, he’d have given anything for the sweet release of some kind of background noise. Every word they uttered dug into his skin, sharpened arrows built to pierce him.

“I can’t believe everything’s over.” Michael clucked. “No more festival.”

“Don’t say that. Anything can happen.”