They were fat with food, full of it, drunk with it, nearly asleep from it. Thanksgiving was like that, which was part of what made it Ted’s favorite holiday. It was the one day when everyone’s job was to overeat, to take a deep breath and make room for seconds. That was really all that was expected of you. And cooking, of course, but Ted liked to cook. He made all of his mother’s old recipes, from sweet potatoes with marshmallows, to cornbread stuffing, to pumpkin pie with butter pecan ice cream. He preferred pumpkin pie with whipped cream, but tradition was tradition. Terrance made the cranberry sauce; he loved to watch the cranberries boil and pop.

Around four o’clock Allison’s parents called, full of the details about the dinner at the assisted living home: Four turkeys. Five kinds of pie. Three kinds of potatoes. It was like the Twelve Days of Christmas. They used to come down for both of the major holidays, but they seemed to prefer Thanksgiving at Brighton Manor, which was both hurtful to Allison and easier at the same time. After the annual Miller family Boggle tournament—a game Terrance could play as well as the rest of them—they were free to do as they pleased. Allison stretched out on the sofa with her script, and Jillian disappeared back into her room. Ted got his coat on. Terrance did too.

“Tree watch?” Allison said.

“Vandalism doesn’t take a holiday,” Ted said.

“Isn’t that an Agatha Christie book?” Her tone was testy. She missed sex, she’d told him the night before. He had nodded, sympathetic. She was both trying to be patient, and, on occasion, making an effort to engage him in what had once been a normal marital activity. He ought, at least, to try to do his part, he thought uncomfortably.

“Ready with my flashlight,” Terrance said, turning on the flashlight on his phone.

Outside it was cold enough to see your breath. It felt late, but it wasn’t. Thanksgiving was like that too. Seven felt like eleven.

“I forgot my gloves,” Terrance said.

“Just keep your hands in your pockets,” Ted said.