“Tell me about it,” he says on the subject of Christmas, letting out a good-natured groan and gently steering the other man toward the door. “Yeah, really snuck up on me this year.”

He opens the door, ready to parcel out the next bit of small talk—are you kidding, I drive her everywhere—when a blast of cold air hits him. Jupe inhales sharply, visibly bracing himself before stepping into the freezing not-quite-dark. “That way,” he says, pointing down the block. He hurries toward the car—not a Cadillac but a Chrysler, its grille like a gleaming, grinning mouth—with his hands shoved in his armpits. Waits until they're well away from the house to say, “Fuck, I forgot there are real icicles here.”