Then the weekend had come. And there were no new surprises left on his counter. He understood in his logical brain. She had weekends off, for Chrissake. She wasn’t about to traipse over, barge into his house to drop some delicious delight off. He was the one who had told her he wanted privacy, solitude on the weekends. Not to mention, she was probably a little apprehensive about what—or whom—she’d find. But he found he was waiting, hoping anyway. Didn’t like the feeling. Reminded him of Christmas, all the other kids talking excitedly about Santa this and Santa that and what Santa was going to bring to them. Mick knew Santa didn’t exist. Hell, his grandma had disabused him of that notion when he came racing off the school bus, a glitter snowflake he had made in his kindergarten class trailing behind him on a string. He’d been bursting with the news of this magical being called Santa Claus and how he brought the most marvelous toys and candy to the good little boys and girls. He’d informed his grandma that the only reason Santa had never visited them was because they hadn’t known to hang up their stockings on Christmas Eve. She had laughed that raspy laugh she had, full of venom, a trail of stale cigarette smoke escaping from between her lips. “Better hang up that pipe dream, kid,” she said, wafting the smoke aside, thin bangles jangling on her bony wrist. “You ain’t getting nothing from no Santy Claus. Bad kids don’t, ’specially ones like you, who are rotten to the core.”

But Mick had gone to bed that Christmas Eve with an empty sock in his hand, hoping, praying. The next year, too, but he’d stolen a thumbtack from the school bulletin board so he could attach the sock to the wall above his mattress on the floor, just in case Santa hadn’t been able to remove it from Mick’s hand without waking him.

But in the morning there was nothing. Not even a lump of coal. That’s how bad he was. After that, he’d stopped waiting. Stopped hoping. Stopped participating in that fool’s game.