Page 49 of A Very Bumpy Christmas
Power?
MEL: Flickered once, came back.
Fill the tub. Set the lanterns. Keep your phone on low battery mode. Cinnamon roll if you’re fine, gingerbread if the world tilts.
A beat.
MEL: Cinnamon roll. Also the fort has an orange.
Fortify.
I do one more loop around Kipling and cut over to Harborview to sit in Gunner’s passenger seat while we thaw out our fingers on coffee lids and trade observations like baseball cards. He’s bullish on Hale being a poacher. I’m not betting yet.
“Storm’s going to pull half the city off the board,” he says, tapping the windshield where snow makes confetti. “We’ll have three times the calls and half the roads.”
“Then we stage now,” I say. “If we lose comms, we revert to Plan Lemon: I move to her, not the office. Duke anchors the client. You float wherever needs hands.”
“Copy,” he says, then side-eyes me. “You’re not sleeping tonight, are you?”
“If the lights hold and Mel sleeps, I’ll run light rest,” I say. “The listening kind.”
“Dad mode,” he says, not teasing. “Looks good on you.”
I don’t answer. My throat does a thing I’m not trained for.
By the time I’m back on Melanie’s block, the snow’s thick enough to make tires whisper. The world’s holding its breath. I park nose-out again, brush the hood, and take a second to just… listen. Snow has a sound when it’s deciding to get serious. It’s here.
Upstairs, the living room has transformed into a ridiculous, perfect nest—blanket fort pitched between the couch and the tree, twinkle lights threaded like we planned cozy on purpose. Amelia salutes from inside like a snow queen, then grabs her coat with a wink. “My watch is over. Yours begins.”
When the door clicks, Melanie peeks out with a grin that smacks me in the sternum. “Enter, Sir Snacks-a-Lot.”
“I’ve been promoted,” I say, and crawl in, radio on low, phone face down, all my edges filed down by the sight of this woman in a T-shirt and leggings, hair in a knot, cheeks warm, brave as ever. The lights flicker once.
“Any news?” she asks, settling against me, my arm a bracket around her, my hand finding the baby’s slow roll.
“Third guy’s probably not the hitter,” I say. “Might be tailing Mercer. Might be a poacher. Doesn’t mean harmless, but it changes how we play it. We’ll keep learning. And we’ll keep the bubble tight.”
“Good,” she says, and presses closer, like I’m part of the fort instead of the reason for it.
The snow thickens to a wall. The barometer in my head drops a notch. Power hums. The heater kicks. The baby shifts under my palm like they’re picking their team.
I run the weather checklist again, quiet, then the storm labor checklist I filed underjust in caseyears ago—towels, warm water, call thresholds, the difference between rehearsal and showtime. I don’t say it out loud. I don’t need to. I’m ready to move without moving.
Duke texts once more.
DUKE: Hale peeled west. Mercer’s lights still on. We hold. You hold.
Holding.
Melanie’s breathing evens against my shoulder, then hitches when the baby does a decisive kick. We both laugh, too softly for the storm to steal.
“Hey, Peanut,” I murmur to the fort air. “Pick a good time, okay?”
The wind answers. The city hunkers. The lights stay on.
I tuck Melanie closer, count the sandbags I’ve set, and listen for the one variable you can’t time with a watch.
When the world blurs into white, you make the perimeter small and the promises smaller.
