Chapter 2

Wasn’t westward jet lag meant to be easier than eastward?

Martin’s head felt wrapped in cotton as he carefully descended the ladder from the bedroom. The sleep had been long and deep, but he could tell already that mere tea wouldn’t wake him.

While the coffee-pod machine gurgled and brewed, he pulled the wee hob—or stove, he mentally corrected himself—from its shelf (everything in the tiny home was stored vertically, which gave him loads of ideas for his own modest flat). He plugged it into the weird little American outlet, then peered blearily at the instruction manual. It was straightforward: turn on to desired level, heat frying pan atop the coils, cook. A pure doddle. He could do it in his sleep.

Martin switched on the hob, and immediately the coils glowed orange. Nice. He found the small frying pan and set it on the worktop, then opened the mini-fridge at his feet and retrieved the eggs he’d bought the previous night. Yawning, he cracked one in each hand and held the shells over the hob.

As if in slow motion, he realized—as the egg innards left their shells—that he hadn’t put the pan atop the coils.

“Nooo!” There were two splats, then a spark. The kitchen light went out with a zzzzzt. The coffee maker stopped mid-brew, releasing a sigh of disappointment at its lost potential.

Now what? He had no breakfast, barely a swallow of coffee, and no power. It wasn’t even Christmas yet.

Or was it? He pulled his phone from the pocket of his trackie bottoms to check the date. Maybe he’d slept straight through the twenty-third and twenty-fourth.

It was still the twenty-third. His jet lag and travel fatigue had simply combined to create a dunderheaded mistake. That’s all it was. Not the Curse.

Not yet.

He stepped into the lounge and flipped the wall switch. The big light gleamed benevolently from the wooden ceiling fan. So he hadn’t short-circuited the entire house. He simply had to find the circuit-breaker box and switch the kitchen power back on. And then buy his landlords a new hob.

There was no panel on the wall, so he stepped outside, where the flagstones were sun-warmed beneath his bare feet. On the kitchen’s exterior wall sat a padlocked white metal box marked DANGER/PELIGRO . He tugged on the lock, but it was secure.

Martin sighed and leaned his forehead on the tiny house. Scarcely twelve hours in this place and already he needed a rescue.

He texted Anthony.

Martin

You won’t believe this but I’ve destroyed your stove and shorted out the kitchen

Anthony

Jet lag brain fog is real yo

I’m so sorry

Lucky you I’m already out and about

Be there in 10

It was just enough time for Martin to dress and turn the mop atop his head into something approaching decency. Nine minutes later, a knock came on the door.

“Morning!” Anthony said as he slid past Martin into the kitchen. “I’m gonna be obnoxiously cheerful to punish you for breaking shit, okay?”

Martin tottered after him, cradling his mug with its single sip of coffee. “I should’ve bought food that didn’t need cook?—”

“Oh, the humanity!” Anthony gaped at the dead hob. He wasn’t wearing glasses this morning, but the bridge of his nose showed a small dent on each side where specs had recently rested.

“I tried to wipe it clean,” Martin said.

“Why bother? It’s a goner. It’s the gonest goner I’ve ever seen. But kind of a piece of shit to begin with, so don’t feel bad. We’ll get you a better one.” Anthony wrapped the cord around the hob, then flicked the light switch beside the kitchen sink. “’Scuse me.” He reached into the two-foot-wide bathroom and tried that switch, with better results there, as well as in the lounge. “Just the kitchen, then.” He tucked the hob under his arm and went out the door. Martin followed.

Anthony unlocked the circuit breaker cover and opened it. “Uh-huh,” he murmured, rubbing his short but scruffy black beard. “You popped it good.” He flicked the switch to off, then on. The kitchen light shone through the window. “Yaaaay.” He turned to Martin. “Proposition for you.”

“Anything.”

“I will buy you breakfast—with the best cup of coffee east of Seattle—if you help me chop down a Christmas tree.”

“I’ve never chopped a tree.”

“I’ll do that part. You’ll just hold it steady, then help me get it into the back of my truck. My folks think I’m a lot stronger than I am.”

Martin downed his one gulp of coffee. “Let’s do it.”

Anthony’s truck was cozy but rugged, with doors that squeaked and floor mats that bore a thick coating of dust. Martin glanced into the truncated back seat. Its tattered brown upholstery was blanketed in black, brown, and white dog hair.

“So how do you like West Virginia so far?” Anthony asked as they rumbled up the driveway.

“It’s beautiful. Wee bit colder than I expected, even though here is much farther south than Glasgow.”

“That’s the Atlantic Meridional Overturning Circulation—or AMOC, as its friends call it.” He downshifted to pull out onto the road. “It’s the big current that brings warm water from the tropics up to the North Atlantic. Makes life livable in northern Europe.”

“Is that the same as the jet stream?”

“The Gulf Stream is part of it, yep.”

Right. Gulf Stream. Martin knew that. His lack of caffeine was showing.

“For a long time,” Anthony continued, “we thought climate change might collapse the AMOC and take the Gulf Stream with it. In that case, y’all in the British Isles and Norway would be up shit’s frozen creek.” The truck’s heater wheezed as Anthony turned it up. “But these days most of the models predict the Gulf Stream will hold fast and most of the damage from a collapsing AMOC will be on this side of the ocean. Rising sea levels, stronger storms, that kinda thing.”

“Oh. Lucky us, I suppose?”

“Maybe, maybe not. Models are always changing based on new information.” As he turned onto another road, Anthony grinned at him, his amber eyes twinkling under the brim of his battered green cap. “I used to be a meteorologist, so weather is never small talk for me.”

“‘Used to be’?”

“Well, I still am by training, just not by trade.”

“I know what that’s like. Straight out of uni I was an aerospace engineer. Now I teach S5 maths.”

“Maths, like a bunch of different kinds of math?”

Martin shook his head. “This is one of those American-British differences. Maths is short for mathematics.”

“Hm. You know what else is short for mathematics? Math .”

Cheeky bam. “But there are many maths: geometry, calculus, algebra?—”

“There are many chemistries: physical, organic, inorganic, et cetera. But we still call chemistry, chemistry . And biology—” He cut himself off. “Never mind. Neither one of us is right, it’s just different ways of saying the same thing.”

“I disagree. Maths is right. Math is wrong.”

“Okay,” Anthony said with the laugh Martin was hoping to provoke. “And what’s S5? Sounds mysterious.”

“Generally sixteen- and seventeen-year-olds. S5 is the first of two optional years of secondary education. You can leave school at sixteen.”

“Here it’s seventeen, at least in West Virginia.” Anthony tapped the steering wheel with the heel of his hand. “Wow. Aerospace engineer to high-school math teacher is a helluva journey. I need to hear all about it.”

“I require a few drams in me before I’ll tell.”

“That can be arranged.” He flashed a smile that made Martin’s skin shimmy.

The last thing Martin had expected to find on this trip was a…companion of that sort. He wasn’t averse to the idea. But he’d take care, in case Anthony was only being friendly.

They turned onto a road with better paving, and the truck sped up. The window in the back seat behind Martin was slightly open, and the wind was making that throbbing, fluttery noise.

“Sorry about all that racket,” Anthony said. “Window got stuck a couple days ago. Duct tape keeps the rain out, but air’s still getting in at the corners.”

“It’s okay,” Martin murmured, trying to think of the phenomenon that produced that sound. “Helmholtz resonance,” he blurted.

“Helmholtz, holy shit. I haven’t thought about that since sophomore fluid dynamics class.” He turned up the music, a rollicking band that sounded like one of those indie-country crossover groups. “There’s some good evergreens up here where the field meets the woods. Guy who owns the land is a friend of the family. He won’t care if we take one.”

“You sure?”

“Mm. Yeah.” Anthony checked his rearview mirror, then scanned their surroundings. “Mostly sure. Hang on.”

He whipped the steering wheel to the right, taking them off the road and onto the grass. Martin grabbed the handle above the passenger window and clung on for grim death.

They passed between a thick wood and a spent cornfield. A flock of crows took wing from the remnants of bent gray stalks. The terrain grew bumpier, rattling Martin’s teeth.

“Here’s a good one!” The truck stopped short, launching Martin forward into his safety belt. Anthony parked, then hopped out without turning the engine off or the music down.

Martin met him at the back of the truck. Anthony folded down the tailgate, then the two of them pulled up a large blue tarpaulin, which was linked to the sides of the empty truck bed with short bungee cords. Finally from the back seat Anthony pulled out a chainsaw with a foot-long…blade?…chain?…the cutty bit. For a moment he held it aloft like King Arthur with Excalibur. It was rather hot.

“I’m thinking this spruce over here.” Anthony trudged to the edge of the wood, where a ragged line of evergreens grew beside towering maples. He sized up the closest one. “Perrrrfect. About ten feet tall, and hardly any bare spots, either. You brought me good luck, my man.”

“That’d be a first.” Martin craned his neck to examine the tall, slim tree. “Where I’m from, people usually buy Christmas trees earlier in December.”

“Same. My folks’ve already got the one, but they want a second, bigger tree now that Aunt Josephine is coming.” He emphasized the name, as though it appeared in all caps on the white board of his mind.

“Ah. And why does that matter?”

“Aunt Josie is a Christmas maniac, and Mom wants to impress her. No, not impress—show her up. We’ve all got our insecurities, I guess.”

“Definitely. What are yours?”

“Heh. It’d be quicker to list the things I’m not insecure about.”

“Go on, then.”

“Dogs. Baked goods.” Anthony paused. “I think that’s it.”

As they did a final check of the tree for bird nests and insect infestations, Martin considered how he’d worried about the communication barrier here in the States, based on his encounters with American tourists in Glasgow. But the Appalachian accent, while not exactly sounding like his own, had some similar patterns. It made sense, as this mountainous region had largely been populated by immigrants from Northern Ireland and the West of Scotland, who’d brought their music, their customs, and their singular brand of daftness.

Anthony slipped on a pair of goggles, then tapped them. “Sawdust behind contact lenses is its own level of hell.” He replaced his hat, then picked up the chainsaw. “Now hold her steady.”

Martin grasped the trunk, leaning over to keep his legs well out of range. “Are chainsaws a thing you’re insecure about?”

Anthony chuckled. “Anyone who says they’re one hundred percent secure with a chainsaw is gonna end up lopping off a limb, and I don’t mean a tree limb.” He switched on the tool, its motor making a ferocious growl.

Martin turned his head and closed his eyes against the rising cloud of sawdust. The spruce needles scratched his arm and filled his nose with their acerbic scent.

“Last bit,” Anthony said, “so brace yourself.”

In a moment, the full weight of the tree pulled on Martin’s arm, but he managed to stay upright, a fact of which he was rather proud.

Together they dragged the tree to the truck and lifted it over the tailgate. It fitted diagonally in the flatbed, but only just. They secured it with the tarpaulin and bungee cords.

Anthony went back and fetched the chainsaw. As he brought it over, he must have noticed Martin’s admiration, because he held it out handle first. “Wanna try it?”

“Oh. No.” Martin put his hands behind his back. “I couldn’t.”

Anthony gave him a saucy grin. “You definitely could.”

Martin met his dark, dancing eyes and swallowed hard. “I mean, if you insist.” He reached out and placed his gloved hands beside Anthony’s on the chainsaw’s body.

“Now you just gotta be careful not to—” Anthony’s eyes widened, looking past Martin. “Get in the truck.”

“Be careful not to get in the truck?”

“Get in the truck! Now!” Anthony shoved the chainsaw into the backseat and dashed for the driver-side door.

Martin looked back the way they’d come. A far bigger black pickup truck was headed their way along the edge of the wood. He hurried into Anthony’s cab, practically falling over himself to get inside.

“Buckle up, buttercup!” Anthony slammed the gearshift into first, and they lurched forward.

Martin fumbled with the safety belt latch before snapping it on. “Who’s chasing us?”

“Don’t know, don’t wanna know.”

“What happens if they catch us?”

“See previous answer.”

“You said no one would care if you took a tree!” Martin shouted over the fuzzy guitar roaring from the speakers.

“You know what they say: Better to ask forgiveness than permission.”

“I know they say that, but they’re usually wrong.” Martin tightened his safety belt, then seized the arm rest to steady himself as the truck bounced over the sparse brown grass. A glance in the wing mirror showed the other vehicle closing in. “They’re gaining on us.”

“Not for long.” Anthony took a hard turn at the end of the cornfield. “Glad Betty’s not with us. At her age, she’s way less sturdy than you.”

“Do I look sturdy enough for this nonsense?”

“You’re sturdy on the inside, I can tell.”

Sturdy on the inside. Martin liked that.

On the next turn, he couldn’t hold back an adrenaline-fueled whoop.

“That’s the spirit!” Anthony let out his own long holler as he floored it, sending them through a narrow path between wood and hedges, back toward the road they’d come from. “Thrill of the chase, baby!”

Branches smacked the cab from both sides, making a racket that nearly covered the headlong rhythm of the music as they sped away. It was like being in a heist film, with a soundtrack and everything.

Martin leaned over to check the wing mirror. Their pursuer was backing up, his vehicle too wide to pass through the space Anthony’s truck was navigating with ease.

“Hah!” Anthony slapped the ceiling of the cab in triumph. “Yeah, dipshit, that’s what you get for driving a giant-ass PCV.”

“PCV?” Martin asked.

“Penile Compensation Vehicle. Hang on again.”

The truck swept onto the road, fishtailing wildly. Martin’s heart and stomach fought to be the first one up his throat.

“I’m fully awake now, by the way,” he announced.

“Hell yeah. Me, too.” Anthony stepped on the accelerator.

No doubt their pursuer was making his way back around the field. “Will they recognize your truck?”

Anthony laughed as he turned onto another, smaller road. “A cruddy old pickup covered in so much dust no one can tell what color it is? That’s half the trucks in these parts.”

Martin took off his gloves and set them on his lap so he could pick out the spruce needles stuck in the fingers. “Do you do this often?”

“Do what often?”

“Poach trees and run away.”

“Nah, just at Christmas.”

“So a holiday tradition, then.”

“Look around you, Martin. There are a lot of trees in this here Mountain State. No one truly owns them but Mother Earth herself.”

“Wouldn’t it be easier to just buy a tree?”

“That’s the point. When you pay for a cut Christmas tree, ninety-five percent of that money is for the convenience, not the tree.” He slowed—barely—to turn onto yet another side road. “Besides, buying a tree is way less fun. You gotta admit that.”

“I don’t ‘gotta admit that.’”

“But actually you do.”

“Maybe.” Martin turned his face toward the side window to hide his smile, then added under his breath, “Just not out loud.”

Anthony eased off the accelerator, and the truck began to slow. “I think we’ve shed them. The sooner we unload this tree at my folks’ house, the sooner?—”

“Cat!” Martin shouted as an orange blur flashed across the road before them.

Anthony slammed on the brakes, the tires screeching as they jerked to a stop. The cat bounded off unharmed into a clump of shrubbery.

“That’s the Amber Alert cat.” Martin shoved open his door. “That’s Pumpkin Spice.”

“Wait!” Anthony called out as Martin dashed toward the brush beside the road. “What Amber Alert cat?” Weren’t those alerts just for human children?

Martin was undeterred, so Anthony pulled off onto the shoulder and got out, throwing a cautious glance up the road in case Cody appeared. So much for their getaway.

Martin was crouching beside a large shrub that was half-smothered by an invasive Asian bittersweet vine. “It is him,” he said as Anthony approached. “Torn right ear, just like in the photo on the flyer.”

“There was a flyer? Do you have the phone number from it?”

“I cannae remember it, but I remember which road I saw it on, so if we can grab him, we’ll go and look at it.” He reached out and pushed aside the brittle bittersweet vine, knocking off a pair of bright red berries, the same berries that had inspired crafty dumbasses to import the plant in the first place to make Christmas wreaths.

The cat, which did have a torn right ear, tried to back up, turning his torso into an accordion. To escape Martin, he would have to plow through a lot of scratchy twigs and branches. So the poor thing was basically cornered.

“I wouldn’t grab him if I were you,” Anthony said. “Tell me where you saw the poster and I’ll go call the owners.”

“If you move your truck to drive off, he might get scared. How embarrassing will it be to tell the owner, ‘Aye, I had your cat but then lost him again’?” He shifted closer to the hedge, pulling up the sleeve of his brown leather jacket. “The poster said he was friendly with strangers.”

“He might be friendly on its own turf, but stuck in a bush with a couple of jagoffs looming over him? If I were a cat, I’d be ready to open up a can of whoop-ass.” Jesus, he sounded hayseed. “As my papaw used to say,” he lied, to put distance between himself and the phrase.

“Firstly, can of whoop-ass is hilarious. Secondly, he’s not even hissing.” Martin reached into the hedge. “Hiya, Spicy. You’re a good lad, aye? Of course you are.”

The cat hissed, folding back its ears.

“Martin, I really don’t think?—”

“Shh-shh-shh. Almost got him. That’s right, wee man, I’m gonnae get you back to your?—”

The cat yowled, launching himself at Martin.

“Aaaaaaaaagh!” Martin tried to pull away, but Pumpkin Spice had latched on. With a single jerk, he extracted the cat from under the bush while screaming a series of unintelligible profanities.

“Hang on.” Anthony ripped off his coat and wrapped it around Martin’s right hand, which was now enveloped in approximately fifteen pounds of fur and fury. “Let go of him!”

“You talking to me or the cat?!”

“Both!” He tucked the coat around the growling beast and managed to detach him from Martin, who gaped at the blood streaking his palm, wrist, and fingers. Anthony went to set the cat down next to the bush.

“Don’t let him go!” Martin shouted. “We’ve gotta take him home.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“I am not fucking kidding you. I didn’t get sliced and diced for nothing.”

“Okay, okay.” Plus, they needed to confirm the cat had had his rabies shot, a factor Anthony decided not to mention to Martin just yet. He tried to wrap the cat tighter in his coat, but it wriggled beneath his grip. “Shit, he’s in the sleeve.”

“In the sleeve?”

“He’s in my fucking coat sleeve!”

“Here.” With his uninjured hand, Martin clamped the end of the sleeve shut. The cat tensed but fell silent.

They waited a few frozen moments.

“Can he breathe in there?” Martin asked. Pumpkin Spice answered with a low sound that was half-meow, half-growl. “You must have calmed him by swaddling.”

“He kind of swaddled himself.” Anthony hoped the cat wasn’t stuck and they’d have to cut the sleeve open. He loved this work coat. But that was a worry for later. He held the bundle close to his chest, hoping Pumpkin Spice would feel soothed instead of threatened. “I need to keep hold of him. Can you drive stick?”

“Can I what?”

“Manual transmission.”

“Oh!” Martin gave a short laugh. “Sorry, my mind went elsewhere. Yes, I can drive your truck.” He looked at his hand. “If you don’t mind a bloody gearshift.”

Martin tried not to cry out or even grit his teeth, but every time he shifted gears, it felt like a lit match held to his palm, where Pumpkin Spice’s rear legs had clawed him. Luckily—a word that felt misplaced at the moment—the bite wound was above his wrist and therefore not touching the gear shift, which was sticky with what he hoped was tree sap.

They found the poster, phoned Pumpkin Spice’s owner, and headed toward her house. On the drive, the cat remained mostly silent inside Anthony’s coat, only uttering an opinion when they took sharp turns.

“So,” Anthony said as Martin eased the truck onto the final road, almost but not quite stalling the engine. “Instead of the word mathematical , do you guys say maths ematical?”

“Ha, ha. My version of English isn’t the weird one, by the way. A bathrobe sounds like something a judge wears in a sauna.”

“And a dressing gown sounds like something a baby wears to get baptized.”

Martin looked over as he prepared a retort. “Oh fuck.”

Pumpkin Spice’s head was sticking out of Anthony’s coat sleeve. The cat peered around, pupils dilated with apprehension.

“Whoops.” Anthony grimaced. “If I take one hand off to stuff him back in, he might panic and jump out.”

Instead of leaping free, Pumpkin Spice pulled his head back into the sleeve like a turtle with a shell. Then he appeared to nestle closer to Anthony’s chest. It seemed a lovely place, to be fair. Could the cat feel the man’s heartbeat?

“Up there on your left,” Anthony said, interrupting Martin’s brief fantasy.

They pulled into the driveway of a sun-yellow two-story house. Martin steadied Anthony as he got out of the truck using no hands.

As they approached the front door, it opened wide to a middle-aged brunette and a warm waft of cinnamon and cloves. “You must be my guardian angels. I’m Sadie Flaherty. Please come in.”

With a great wriggle, Pumpkin Spice escaped Anthony’s coat sleeve and launched himself into Sadie’s arms.

“There’s my baby boy!” Sadie hugged the cat, choking back a sob. “Oh, I was sick to death with worry.” Pumpkin Spice head-butted her chin. “Thank you both so much. Let me get your reward money.”

Martin shook his head. “That’s really not?—”

“Actually,” Anthony said, “what we’d most like to have is a rabies certificate.”

Martin’s body flashed hot, then cold. Rabies was still a thing in this country, wasn’t it? The death rate was one hundred percent if untreated. He’d read that in a book somewhere.

“Rabies?” Sadie asked with a gasp.

Martin gave her an awkward wave with his bloody hand.

She covered her mouth. “Oh my goodness! Yes, of course. Come on in.”

They followed Sadie into a bright kitchen with a gleaming skylight. Simmering on the stove was a pot of what looked like mulled wine but smelled more like apples than grapes.

Sadie put the cat down in front of a bowl of water, which he drank greedily. “Not too much, now, Spicy, or you’ll hork it all up.” She set two mugs beside the stove and gestured to the ladle in the pot. “Help yourselves to some cider while I find that certificate.” She disappeared into the adjoining dining room.

It seemed a bit early for a drink, but Martin took the mug Anthony poured for him. The taste was delicious, though surprisingly non-alcoholic.

On the floor in the kitchen corner sat a large oval bed containing a trio of squeaky toys. “Have you got a dog also?” Martin asked Sadie, stepping to the dining room doorway.

She looked up from the long chest of drawers she was rummaging through. “Not right now, sadly. I lost my sweet old Birdy about three months ago. I know I should put away her things or donate them, but I can’t stand to just yet.” She put her hands on her hips and shook her head at the dog bed. “I’d like to adopt another, but I don’t have the time and energy for a puppy.”

“In that case…” Anthony pulled his wallet from a coat pocket and took out a business card. “I volunteer with a rescue group that specializes in senior dogs.” He gave her the card. “If you ever think about adopting, check out our website or give us a buzz.”

“Will do, thank you.” She took the card and slipped it into her apron pocket. Then she turned back to the pile of papers she was searching through.

Martin cocked his head at Anthony, wondering why he hadn’t mentioned Betty. Maybe he was thinking of adopting her himself.

“Here we are.” Sadie held up an official-looking paper with a metal tag taped to it. “You want to take a picture to show the ER docs?”

Martin put his wounded hand behind his back. “I don’t think I’ll need the hospital.”

“Yeah, you will,” Anthony said, ladling himself a mug of cider. “You don’t want to mess with animal bites—especially cats, with all the bacteria in their mouths. And especially -especially on your hand. Bitten joints are bad news.”

Martin sighed, imagining how long he’d have to wait to be treated. “I have to go now? It’ll take half the day.”

“Honey, with you being from out of town,” Sadie said, “lost time is the least of your worries. Here, I doubled this for your troubles.” She gave him an envelope with Reward and a happy cat face on the outside. “You’ll need it.”

Anthony was sorry to be right about the serious nature of the feline brouhaha. At the emergency room, the triage nurse took one look at Martin’s wounds, heard that a cat had done it, and ushered him into treatment.

Not being invited, Anthony waved good luck to Martin, then turned to the nearly empty waiting room. The ER wasn’t busy, but then again, it was a weekday, and most doctor’s offices wouldn’t close for the holiday until tomorrow afternoon.

He sank into one of the green vinyl chairs. The TV was tuned to some game show he’d never seen. Contestants apparently had thirty seconds to guess seven words in the same category, based on the first letter and the length of the blank space after it.

Anthony sifted through the stack of old magazines on the table beside his chair. It was mostly tabloids like People and Us , but also—amusingly/shockingly for a healthcare facility—several back issues of Guns and Ammo and the hunting magazine Outdoor Life . He picked up one of the latter to check out the cover story on “Hero Dogs.”

He was skimming the first article when out of the blue, a guy to his left shouted, “Ketchup!”

Anthony looked up, wondering if the man was waiting for a psych evaluation, then realized he was talking to the TV. The game show’s category was Things Made from Tomatoes, and the contestants had so far only guessed salsa and BLTs .

He looked at the doors to the treatment area and thought about the selfless act that had landed poor Martin here. He’d been so hell-bent on saving that cat, he’d forgotten to put his gloves back on before reaching for it. Anthony should have remembered for him, but he’d been too…what? Impressed? Infatuated?

“Jesus Christ, it’s ketchup!”

There’d certainly been a spark between him and Martin, if not from Moment One, then definitely next to that cornfield, when their eyes had met over the chainsaw handle.

Anthony glanced up at the TV. “Gazpacho, too.”

Ketchup Man narrowed his eyes at him, then offered a cool nod.

Anthony turned back to his magazine, where he’d stumbled upon a helpful article on catfish bait.

He’d finished that and was about to grab an issue of Family Handyman when the double doors to the treatment area gave a mechanical click. They swung open to reveal Martin accompanied by a nurse in maroon scrubs. They were laughing together, and she looked starstruck, probably at his accent.

“Just have a seat,” the nurse said, “and someone will call on you in a jiffy to do your discharge.”

“Cheers!” Martin gave her a smile that lit a spark of jealousy in Anthony, which was promptly quenched by the even bigger smile Martin gave him. “That was brilliant,” he said as he took the seat beside Anthony. “I cannae believe how fast they treated me. At home I might’ve waited hours just to be seen.”

“It gets pretty crazy here at night.” He gestured to the bandage on Martin’s hand. “They fix you up?”

“Aye, they cleaned the scratches and the bite. No stitches, but that’s because puncture wounds should stay open, they said, otherwise bacteria get trapped inside.” He held up a small envelope. “Gave me antibiotics for the road.”

“Good.” Did he mean gave as in, he thought it was free?

“Also a tetanus jab, as I couldn’t remember when I’d last had one.” He rubbed his shoulder. “The doctor who saw me, Dr. Shah, studied medicine in Edinburgh, so we had loads to talk about. He’s still a Hearts fan, in fact.”

“Huh.” Anthony remembered he was supposed to be soccer-ignorant. “So he’s a cardiologist?”

Martin found this hilarious.

“Gibson?” called out the discharge clerk, who beckoned Martin to join her in a cubicle-sized office.

“Back in a mo’.” Martin popped out of the chair and headed into the office. He gave the clerk a peppy “Hiya,” as he closed the door.

Anthony listened for the imminent explosion of dismay. Martin was about to get his biggest culture shock yet.

Soon the door opened, and Martin exited slowly, so pale and, well… stunad, as Mom would say , Anthony worried he was undergoing actual physical shock and should be readmitted.

Martin shambled over to him and held up the Pumpkin Spice reward envelope, which was much thinner now.

“Eight hundred twenty dollars.” Martin spoke slowly, enunciating each syllable. “Eight hundred twenty dollars and sixteen cents.”

Anthony nodded. He was surprised the charge was that low but didn’t think it would help to say so.

Martin repeated the amount, then held up his invoice. “For a puncture wound, a tetanus jag, and three days of amoxicillin. And that was a discount from what they would charge an insurance company, she said. They ‘wrote off’ most of the charge, she said.”

“Yep.”

“I asked if they could bill NHS Scotland, and she looked at me like I was an orphan begging for more gruel. I should’ve bought travel health insurance like Mum told me to, but I thought I’d never be leaving the house.” Martin clutched his hair with his unbandaged hand. “Now I know why the wait time was so short. It’s amazing anyone comes here with these prices.”

Anthony decided not to go into the intricacies of health insurance. “Hey, guess what? We can have breakfast now.”

Martin squinted at the clock. “It’s nearly noon.”

“Yeah, but the place we’re going serves breakfast all day.”

“Breakfast all day.” Martin nodded approvingly. “America really is the best and worst place in the world.”

The diner in the nearby town was bustling with a lunch rush, but Anthony had been right: They served breakfast all day. As they stood in the foyer waiting to be sat, a server sped by with two plates of eggs, sausage, and toast. Martin’s stomach growled harder than Pumpkin Spice at peak rage.

A tall blonde server—Tracy, according to her badge—greeted Anthony by name and gave him a wide smile. They looked of an age, so perhaps they’d been schoolmates.

“Who’s your friend here?” Tracy looked Martin up and down, her gaze catching on his bandaged hand. “And what did you do to him?”

“This is Martin,” Anthony said, “our guest for Christmas.”

“Oh, in one of them tiny homes?” She turned to Martin. “Aren’t they just the cutest things?” She picked up two enormous menus and led them to a window booth where a tabletop jukebox was draped with red, green, and silver tinsel. “So, Anthony, you’re probably sick of this question by now, but are we gonna get a white Christmas?”

Anthony beamed at her as he took off his cap. “Might could. All depends on this high-pressure system. It may push all that moisture up into Pennsylvania and give us a sunny Christmas.”

“Well, as long as it’s not rain or fog.” She turned to Martin. “What can I?—”

“Now, rain’s still the most likely outcome,” Anthony continued. “There’s a big storm system coming out of the Midwest, the one that dumped six inches of snow in Iowa and Illinois.”

“Oh. Okay.” Tracy glanced at the diner’s front door, where half a dozen people were waiting to be sat. “Did you know what you want?—”

“But if there’s enough turbulence in the lower troposphere…”

Martin stopped listening and started scanning the menu. Everything sounded delicious—omelets, crepes, sandwiches, soups. He could eat the actual menu, he was so famished.

Tucked inside the menu was another menu, of daily specials. But which day was it today?

Anthony was still talking. “And then what could happen—this is a bit of an outlier, maybe fifteen percent chance—is that there’ll be a layer of warm air between the cold layer where the snow forms and the cold air near the…”

Martin tried to remember where he’d been twenty-four hours ago. Still on the plane, or in the car?

“…and by near , I mean a mile up. Anyway, then we could get the worst possible outcome, which is sleet.”

Tracy was clearly no longer listening to Anthony’s weather blether either. With a pasted-on smile for her current table, she gave a quick nod to a man at a nearby table who had just signaled her. Clearly Anthony had never worked in the hospitality sector.

How would sleet be the worst outcome, anyway? Martin wondered idly. A mix of rain and snow was messy but manageable.

“…followed by high winds, and we could be looking at widespread power out?—”

“Mate.” Martin rapped his knuckles on the table between them. “I’m fucking starving, and she’s got a million other customers.”

Anthony pulled his head back a few inches. “Oh. Yeah. Of course.” He gave an embarrassed chuckle that made Martin feel instantly an arse. “Sorry for rambling.”

“No problem, hon.” She spoke in a stage whisper behind her hand to Martin. “Yes, he’s always been like this, and yes, that’s why we love him and you should too.”

They both ordered coffee and omelets, and Martin decided to let the precise nature of “scrapple” be a surprise.

“Sorry I got crabbit with you there,” Martin said.

Anthony gave a dismissive wave. “Sorry I rambled. Didn’t mean to make you go from hungry to hangry.”

“I’ll survive.” He examined the song choices on their tabletop jukebox. “I’ve never been in a real diner.”

“You don’t have them over there?”

“Some cities have a few, but the ones I’ve gone to felt like theme restaurants, kitschy Americana and such.” He gestured to the plastic Santa lounging on the window shelf, its suit faded and its beard yellowed with age. “This place feels like it’s been here forever.”

“It has been. Since before I was born, anyways.” Anthony tugged on the tinsel. “Lotta new people moving into the area these days. Mostly DC commuters, which blows my mind. Washington feels a whole world away. But land is cheaper here than in Maryland or Virginia. Prettier, too.”

“It is beautiful.”

“Still, no matter how many new people come in, some places stay the same.” He tapped the Formica table. “Like this diner.”

“I get it. My part of Glasgow’s being gentrified. I like the new coffee shops and tapas places, but I also like affording rent.”

“Right? I can’t believe I’m thirty-four and living with my parents. It’s hard to find a home on a failed weatherman’s nonexistent salary.”

Tracy brought their coffees then, along with a small bowl of what looked like wee coffee pods. Martin picked one up and looked at the label. “Half and half?”

“Half milk and half cream. A happy medium.”

Martin peeled off the lid and poured the contents into his coffee, where it made a picturesque caramel-colored swirl. “In Scotland a half and a half—a hauf an’ a hauf —is a dram of whisky with a half-pint of beer.”

“That sounds way more fun than milk and cream.”

Martin curled his hands around his mug to absorb its warmth, then pulled the right one away as the pain flared. “If it’s not too personal, how did you fail at weathermanning?”

“It’s personal, but I brought it up.” Anthony took two sugar packets from a basket near the jukebox, then tapped them lightly against the table the way a smoker would tap a cigarette before lighting it. “I wasn’t the chief meteorologist at that station in Pittsburgh, but I did most of the on-air weekend slots, plus subbed in for the chief when he was on vacation. I’d started building up a fan base.”

“So what went wrong?”

“Officially, they brought in a more experienced meteorologist from a rival network.” Anthony poured the sugar into his mug. “They offered to let me stay and work behind the scenes on forecasting, but it would’ve been for half the salary and none of the glory. They knew I’d never accept the offer.”

“If that’s the official reason, then…”

“Unofficially, I got fired for dithering.”

“Oh.” Martin recalled Anthony’s exegesis on the white-Christmas question.

“Shocker, right? Thing about weather, it’s all probabilities. That’s why we say there’s, like, a forty percent chance of rain.”

“Right.”

“And even that’s kinda bullshit. But people want solid answers they can plan their days or weekends or vacations around. They don’t want a never-ending chain of if-then statements.” Anthony combed his short dark hair with his fingers, maybe just now realizing his cap had left him with hat-head. “To me, it was only fair to give my viewers every possibility. I needed them to know that nothing is certain, that we are all at the mercy of forces more powerful than us.”

“Well.” It seemed a heavy load for a local news hour.

“But people crave certainty, and when they don’t get it, they get madder than a hornet in a Mason jar.”

“So the viewers complained?”

“Yeah, but the funny thing is, after I left, the network got even more bellyaching from people who were pissed I was gone. Let that be a lesson: If you enjoy someone’s work, you gotta spread the word, or they might disappear.”

“Noted.”

Tracy arrived with their breakfasts. “Here we go!”

“Och, that was blinding fast.” Martin grabbed the table napkin wrapped around the cutlery with the paper ring. “It’s not gonnae cost $820.16, is it?”

“Sorry?” she asked.

“Martin had a quick but expensive trip to the ER this morning.” Anthony turned to him. “It won’t cost that much unless you give Tracy an eight-hundred-dollar tip.”

“I wouldn’t complain,” she said.

Hungrier than ever, Martin yanked the little paper ring off his table napkin and cutlery. The napkin unrolled, spilling the knife, fork, and spoon onto the floor. “Christ. I’m sorry.”

“I’ll forgive you just this once,” Tracy said, gathering the cutlery. “Be right back with some clean ones.”

“What is wrong with me today?” Martin asked Anthony. “It’s not even Christmas yet.”

He pulled in a gasp, then swallowed. He hadn’t meant to mention the Curse, even obliquely. But after the way Anthony had talked about “more powerful forces,” Martin thought maybe he’d understand, or at least listen without laughing.

Anthony handed over his own cutlery. “Take mine. Your brain’s probably scrambled from low blood sugar.”

First Martin tried the scrapple, which looked and tasted like black pudding’s earthier, cornier cousin. “So, do you miss Pittsburgh?”

“I miss it so much. ” Anthony smiled at Tracy as she dropped off a roll of clean cutlery. “Pittsburgh’s a great town. And I miss city living in general. It’s easier to meet people there.”

Martin took a chance. “And by people , you mean guys.”

“Yeah.” Anthony rubbed the back of his ear, looking uneasy. “Um, basically, yeah.” He swiped a hand over his reddening cheek. “I probably shouldn’t talk about this kinda stuff with a guest.”

Martin stopped cramming food down his neck for a moment and looked steadily across the table. “I’m just a guest to you? After all we’ve been through together?” He kept his voice light and teasing. “I’m dead hurt, man.”

“You know what I mean.” Anthony angled his face to the window, where the sunlight revealed a golden spot in one of his dark-brown eyes. “We shouldn’t—” He froze, his smile fading in an instant. “Oh shit.”

“What?” Martin leaned forward to peer around the plastic Santa. A familiar black behemoth truck had pulled up behind Anthony’s pickup, blocking it in. “He’s found us?”

A burly man with a long black beard hopped out of the driver’s seat, then opened the back door and reached inside.

“Stay here. I’ll go talk to him.” Anthony shot out of the booth and sprinted for the door. Martin turned back to the window. The man was pulling out a…fucking hell…a machete?

Martin launched himself after Anthony, nearly knocking over a pair of twin tots who were reaching for the bakery case near the door.

Outside, Anthony stood with his hands up between his truck bed and the angry man.

“Lousy no-good thief!” The man raised the machete. “This is the last time?—”

“Stop!” Martin stepped up beside Anthony. “You’d really kill a man for the sake of a spruce?”

“I’m not gonna kill him.” The machete remained high in the air. “I’m taking my tree.” He lunged forward and brought down the blade on the nearest bungee cord. It snapped back, and a pair of spruce branches sprang out from beneath the tarpaulin.

“Wait.” Martin reached inside his jacket.

The man’s eyes popped wide, and he took a step back toward his vehicle. “Don’t shoot.” He reached behind him for his truck’s door handle.

“I’m not gonnae shoot you, ya bellend.” With his bandaged fingers fumbling for purchase, Martin pulled out the reward envelope. “I’m gonnae pay you. For the tree.”

Though his expression still roiled with suspicion, the man let go of the door. “How much?”

Martin slipped the hundred-dollar note out of the envelope and held it up, hoping his new nemesis couldn’t see how hard his hand was shaking.

The man barked out a laugh and gestured to Anthony with his machete-free hand. “If he wasn’t a stinking thief and he actually bought a tree that big at a lot? He’d pay two hundred, easy.”

Martin put the note back in the envelope and quickly did the sums in his head. “How about $179.84?” He held out the envelope, shaking it so the coins would jingle.

Anthony stepped between them. “Martin, you don’t have to do that.”

“Don’t I?” He spoke in the lowest audible tone he could manage. “What’s your play, then?”

Anthony’s eyes met his. “None, I guess.” He lowered his gaze. “What do you say, Cody?”

Cody stepped up and snatched the envelope from Martin’s hand. A penny spilled out onto the carpark’s tarmac. They all watched it spin, then come to rest tails-up. They stepped back almost in unison.

“Y’all good now?” Tracy shouted from behind Martin. “Or do I have to call the cops?”

He turned to see her holding her mobile phone aloft. She stood at the head of a small crowd gathering outside the diner.

“We cool now?” Anthony asked Cody.

“Next time it’ll be your tires,” Cody growled as he tossed the machete into his backseat. “Or your neck, depending what mood I’m in that day.”

“There won’t be a next time.” Anthony held up three fingers. “Scout’s honor.”

“Pah!” Cody climbed into his pickup. He drove off with a rev of engine and squeal of tires. A pair of large green rubber testicles swung beneath the back of the truck.

“Hooo,” Anthony said with a hard release of breath. “That was close. Thanks for bailing me out.”

“Nae bother.” Martin ripped his gaze from the departing scrotum and turned to him. “I never wanted the reward money, and foreign currency never feels real, anyway.” He tried to laugh, his heart still hammering his ribs. “It’s like Monopoly money, aye?”

Anthony nodded but didn’t look at him. “C’mon, our eggs are getting cold.”