Stanford Palmer clung to his title as Department Head of Chemical Engineering almost as tightly as he clung to the handle of his briefcase as he trudged towards the laboratory. It was past midnight, and after a draining workday, the professor readied himself for an equally tiresome night. 

Between a failing marriage and an accumulating debt, Stanford’s life was deteriorating like a baby tooth in a cola bottle at a middle school science fair. His career was the one aspect of his life he could control, so when the SunWay Transit Company offered to sponsor the university’s research project— replacing asphalt roadway surfaces with structurally-sound solar panels— Stanford seized the opportunity to chair the undertaking. 

Thus Stanford found himself at the university in a caffeine-induced delirium, in the early hours of a Saturday morning, working on a funding renewal proposal that was due the following Monday.

“Professor Palmer?” A voice disrupted Stanford’s directionless thoughts. Michael Walter, one of the custodians, had made his way tentatively through the lab’s half-open door. He held a thermos of coffee in one hand and a pushbroom in the other.

“Sorry to bother ya,” Michael apologized. “Didn’t expect to see anyone on a weekend night shift.”

“No worries. My door’s always open.”

“Seems as such. I reckon you’re clocking more hours here than at your own house.”

“I guess I prefer it that way.” The professor laughed through a stifled yawn. 

“Do ya now?” Michael started sweeping the floor. “Why’s that?”

Stanford looked into the lens of his microscope and turned the dials aimlessly, searching more for the right words than for a clear image. “I’ve just been having a rough go lately.”

“Sorry to hear that.” 

The room quieted into a consolatory silence before Stanford spoke up again. “It’s like this,” he said, reaching for a microscope slide from a wooden box on his desk. He fastened the slide to the microscope, adjusted a few dials, and turned the eyepiece towards the custodian. Michael peered into the tiny lens. Inside were hundreds of long, asymmetrical beehive-like contours.

“Onion skin cells.” The custodian classified the image with conviction. “I ain’t no professor but I’ve sat through my share of high school science classes.”

“To the naked eye, onions are these perfect vegetables that—”

“— make everything taste better?”

“Exactly,” the professor nodded. “But magnify them, and they’re composed of millions of lonely epidermal cells, isolated from each other by rigid cellulose walls that—.”

“I ain’t a chemistry professor, remember?”

“Sorry,” Stanford chuckled. “I guess what I’m saying is this: I have a professional career, a beautiful wife, a comfortable home. To the naked eye, my life looks perfect.” 

“But you’ve got walls, eh?”

“I’ve got walls.”

The lab fell into another heavy silence, penetrated only by the artificial buzz of fluorescent lights.

“So what’s got you workin’ on a Saturday morning?” Michael eventually asked.

“We’re designing renewable energy roadways out of solar panels.”

“That’s one way to make a name for yourself.”

“Yeah,” Stanford sighed. “But I think it’s one of my walls.”

“Oh?”

“It’s cut me off from my wife, my hobbies, everything. My entire life feels fenced in by this hopeless project.”

“Hopeless?”

“The panels’ silicon surfaces don’t provide enough traction for them to double as functioning roads.”

“I don’t follow.”

“Driving on solar panels would be like driving on black ice,” Stanford explained, adding, “without winter tires.”

“Not ideal.”

“Not at all.”

“Well, I can’t help much. Like I said, I’m not a—”

“Not a chemistry professor, I know.” Stanford laughed.

“But at least let me give you this.” Michael handed him his thermos. Before Stanford could object, Michael added, “don’t worry, I haven’t drunk anything yet. Besides, you need it more than I do.”

“Thank you. That’s very kind.”

“Anyway, I’ll let you get back to it. I’ve got a long walk home so I best be heading out.” Michael started towards the door, but before he reached it, he turned back. “Professor?”

“Hmm?”

“If I remember correctly, cell walls are semipermeable.”

With that, Michael slipped out the door. His footsteps faded into the empty hall.

Stanford opened Michael’s thermos and imbibed its sweet-smelling steam. Its warmth awoke something inside him. For the first time in his life, Stanford could breathe freely; so freely that he left the laboratory and its lingering spirits of formaldehyde and ether for good.

“Michael?” he called, walking swiftly through the halls to catch up. “I’m heading home. Why don’t I give you a ride?”

Soft snow fell gingerly from the heavens, set aglow by the shafts of sunlight that pierced through the wispy clouds. The streets were bustling with the spirit of Christmas, and the sound of children’s laughter could be heard faintly over the radio’s lively rendition of “Joy to the World.”

It was a nightmare.

See, I was pulling into the parking lot at the mall for a last-minute shopping spree, and— let the records show— I’m not much of a Christmas shopper. Whenever I step foot in the shopping mall, which doesn’t happen often, my wife’s voice materializes in the throne room of my subconscious, assuming command over me, its one and only subject. “Get something practicallll…” Her voice echoes through my mind with such ease that my skull seems emptier than I’d like to hope. “No one actually uses scented candlesssss…” 

Every year I get so caught up in my own thoughts (and my wife’s thoughts) that I end up spending about five hours and five hundred dollars more than intended.

So like I said, I’m not one for Christmas shopping, and that’s under ordinary circumstances. But to shop for someone I barely know anymore, two days before Christmas, at a mall whose directory looks like an exact replica of the New York City subway map? I was more likely to vacation in the Bermuda Triangle. 

My car radio was rattling off the final few verses of “Joy to the World” as I searched for somewhere to park. It was a cover by a band I’d never heard of before, but based on the instrumentation (a keytar and a synthesizer on some kind of “Fargo” patch), they were probably called “Maverick and the Gnarly Gremlins” or something along those lines. Anyway, the song was ending in a fade-out typical of the decade of synthesizers on “Fargo” patches, and I still couldn’t find a parking spot. I knew better than to park along the street, because the second I pulled out of the lot, I’d have drowned in traffic so dense that it may as well have been a vacation to the Bermuda Triangle.

I continued my seemingly futile search, all the while frantically racking my brain for gift ideas for cousin Chuckie. He had called me up out of the blue a couple nights ago, asking if he could spend the holidays at my place. I was about to deny his request and maybe even throw in a “remember the time you popped the heads off all my G.I. Joe action figures in grade two and told me it was because their minds were blown at how much of an idiot I was?” for good measure, but before I could open my mouth, my wife’s voice infiltrated my thoughts once again. “Remember the true meaning of Christmasssss…” it whispered into my ear like a shoulder angel (or a shoulder devil, I can’t decide which). And so here I was, looking for a parking spot among a sea of last-minute shoppers whose desperation was just as fueled by the consequences of their procrastination as mine was. 

Over my car speakers, a preppy news reporter voice that sounded a little too influenced by the holiday season started announcing the next song. Her nasally voice was distorted with radio static, but I could make out that it was a group called “The Disco Divas” and they were playing yet another cover of “Joy to the World,” as if the eighties glam rockers-in-spandex version wasn’t enough. I tried to change stations, but I turned the wrong knob and the cover doubled in volume.

While I fiddled with the dials on my car, I saw a parking spot in my peripheral vision. An empty plot of concrete, unobstructed by wheels of any sort. It felt like Christmas morning.

I started to pull up to the heaven-sent parking space, the refrain of “Joy to the World” blasting just as loud in my mind as it was on my radio. In fact, my inner voice, my wife’s voice, and the lead singers of “The Disco Divas” were all singing together in perfect four-part harmony, like a choir of heavenly hosts. Our vocal performance was cut short mid-chorus though, because to my dismay, when I got closer I saw one of those plastic red-and-yellow Little Tikes “Cozy Coupe” push cars, parked in my spot. If I had a quarter for every time I thought I’d found a parking spot but then discovered it was just being used by a really short car, I’d have enough money to bribe cousin Chuckie into spending Christmas alone. But a toddler’s toy car? I’d never seen anything quite like it. 

If it hadn’t been for my wife’s constant reminders of “the spirit of Christmas” and “doing the right thing,” I’d have parked right on top of the plastic car and gone about my day. Instead, I continued bitterly down the rows of traffic.

The radio announcer’s grating voice started introducing a third cover of my new least-favourite carol— a death metal adaptation this time— when I saw my second chance. Another available spot. I didn’t have time to celebrate though, because coming from the other direction was a jet-black monster truck with flaming skulls emblazoned on the fenders. It was commanded by a shaggy-bearded man whose face was more tattoo than it was skin. 

He glowered at me through his windshield, and we sized each other up like wild animals. He bared his teeth and revved his engine. I clenched my steering wheel with both of my white-knuckled fists and broke out in a nervous sweat. 

Then suddenly, he barrelled towards me on a collision course with the speed and the volume of an artillery cannon. I stepped on my gas and lurched forward too, desperate for the sweet refuge of those benevolent yellow lines of paint, but next to the cannon of a monster truck, my minivan was a nerf gun. It was an unspoken game of “chicken,” soundtracked by an appropriately dramatic screamo vocalist, bellowing about the “wonders of His love.”

My opponent wasn’t backing down. While he drove, he pointed at me with his index finger and then drew it over his throat, all while glaring at me with eyes that were narrower than the parking space. Other than swerving, my only hope was fitting my entire minivan underneath his skid plate, and while it may have been possible, I doubted my wife would have appreciated the tactic. So I whispered a brief “farewell” to both my parking spot and my pride, and swerved only seconds before my shopping trip became a demolition derby.

At this point, I was desperate, hungry, and willing to try anything. Death metal “Joy to the World” eventually became Dixieland “Joy to the World,” which soon transitioned into an old-timey hillbilly country “Joy to the World.” I was planning to drive my minivan straight through the mall’s automatic sliding doors, if that’s what it took, when I passed a gloriously empty handicap parking spot. My wife’s voice inside my head was objecting loudly, but the temptation was louder. Like a swan gliding through silky waters, I gracefully pulled into the spot and got out of my car before my wife could convince me to change my mind.

As I was speed walking towards the entrance to the mall, ready to finish my trip and retreat back into the safety of my home, I passed a bleary-eyed woman pushing what must have been her son in a wheelchair. I subconsciously averted my eyes, but I couldn’t help but overhear their conversation.

“Mommy?” The child asked meekly.

“Yes, Billy?”

“Why do you always have to push my wheelchair across the entire parking lot?”

“Because, pumpkin, there are monsters in this world who are far too concerned with their own convenience than with little disadvantaged angels such as yourself.” 

I dug my hands deep into my pockets and started walking a little faster.

“But what about the law, mommy? Don’t the monsters care about the law?”

“No, Billy,” the woman answered gravely. Her eyes clouded as if burdened with a painful history. “No, they don’t.”

I sped past the two, staring at my feet and bustling through the mall doors without looking back. Inside, an a cappella “Joy to the World” rang past the kiosks and food courts, and I looked up to see a group of a hundred or so preteens in red and green choir uniforms, right by the entrance, singing with the blissful festivity of kids who don’t yet have to park their own cars.

I stepped past the choir, venturing deeper into the labyrinth of a mall, and bumping elbows with frantic shoppers of all ages. I felt stressed and claustrophobic, but more so than that, I felt resentment toward cousin Chuckie. I mean, he had tormented me throughout my entire childhood, outshined me when we were teenagers, and completely ignored me into my adulthood, only to call me out of nowhere, asking to ruin the most important day of the year. I mean, the dude doesn’t even show up to my wedding, and he thinks he can just—

Suddenly, my train of thought was interrupted by something that had caught the corner of my eye. The perfect gift. It was a Christmas miracle. It stood gloriously in its rotating display case, radiating wonder. It was perfectly symmetrical, yet new from every angle. It shone with unopened novelty, yet it felt like I’d known it all my life. It was fit for royalty, yet its warmth made it approachable to anyone. It was the perfect emblem of our relationship as cousins.

Something changed inside me upon seeing it, sitting in the display window in all its glory. Maybe my shoulder angel wife was finally getting to me, or maybe it was the spirit of Christmas. Whatever the reason, I felt all my bitterness dissipate. At that moment, I knew I was put on this planet for a purpose, and that purpose was to purchase this gift for cousin Chuckie. 

I entered the store and lifted it delicately off its display, too enraptured to check the price tag. Cradling it in my arms like a newborn, I walked towards the check out line, and the cashier rang it through.

“That’ll be five hundred dollars,” she said in her sing-songy customer service voice, flashing me a shiny smile.

“I’m sorry?” I asked, snapping out of my daze and staring blankly at the cashier. 

“Five hundred dollars, sir.” 

I gazed into the brilliance of the gift on the counter. I knew it was expensive, but at a certain point you have to ask yourself: what’s five hundred dollars next to the face of a cousin who knows he’s loved? Cousin Chuckie and I have been at each other’s throats since forever, and if five hundred dollars was what it would take to finally mend our relationship and step onto the path towards forgiveness, then it was worth it if you asked me. In fact, it was a cheap price to pay.

“Um, are you going to take it or not, sir? We’ve got a long line and I don’t—”

“Keep the change.” I dumped the contents of my wallet on the counter— five hundred dollars worth of bills, a crumpled grocery receipt, and some pocket lint. Then, reaching over the counter, I gently lifted the gift out of the cashier’s hands and marched toward the mall’s exit in a state of triumph.

I half-walked, half-skipped out of the sliding doors, and was met with a gust of crisp winter air. When I looked up to find my minivan though, my euphoria vanished instantly. I had made it outside just in time to see it being hitched onto an enormous tow truck, and towed away.

Billy and his mom were sitting next to each other, sipping on hot chocolates and laughing like stock photo models. 

“Merry Christmas!” Billy greeted me.

“Shove a sock in it,” I greeted back.

Just then, my cell phone rang. It was cousin Chuckie. I picked it up and held it to my ear.

“Hey cousin Chuckie. What’s up?”

“There’s been a change of plans,” he declared, his voice muffled through the receiver. 

“What are you talking about?”

“Look bro, I know your holiday’s gonna be totally lame without me,” he said. “But I met this girl at a sports bar last night, and things are moving pretty fast. She wants me to meet the parents. You know how it is.”

“You mean you’re not coming?”

“Nah, bro. I can’t.”

“But I already bought your present. You have to come.”

“That’s okay you can ship it to me. It better be something good—.”

I hung up the phone and shoved it into my pocket. My resentment and bitterness came rushing back, all at once, and I looked down at the gift in my hand, a vintage 1967 G.I. Joe action figure. 

I dug my fingers into its neck and popped the head clean off.

 Northridge Long-Term Care was a humble building. Its roughly 5 000 square feet of housing were crumbling around the edges, its gardens were overrun by weeds, and its plumbing malfunctioned more often than it worked. No doubt the modest little facility undermined the state’s building code, but either the municipal officials couldn’t be bothered to care, or the Northridge staff found enough loopholes to get around the bylaws. The building was in a small neighbourhood afterall, and despite many an onlooker’s apprehensions, its residents were contented in the tight-knit community they found themselves in. Each of the staff members knew each of the residents by name, and if anything, it was more like a summer camp than it was a retirement home.

And if Northridge Long-Term Care was a summer camp, then Mr. Dalton Conners, one of the more senior residents, played the role of the outsider. In one sense or another, all social gatherings— big or small, old or young— have one, and retirement homes are certainly no exception. Mr. Conners fit the description flawlessly.

It wasn’t that his appearance was particularly unusual. In fact, his was comparable to that of any of the other residents. He was of average height, and like the majority of his peers, most of his features were masked behind the wrinkles and sagging skin that manifested in his old-age. Mr. Conners’ peculiarity lay not in his looks, but rather in his behaviour. He was quiet and reserved, and besides the bi-weekly dance classes (which he attended but never participated in) he kept to himself. 

Northridge Long-Term Care had no record of any of Mr. Conners’ relatives, as all of the Conners had long since either passed or moved away, so with no visitors to entertain him and few friends to amuse him, Mr. Conners spent most of his time alone in his room. He would sit on his rocking chair for hours, staring at the wall with his heavy eyes glazed over, sometimes humming tunelessly to himself, but more often silent. Whenever someone made efforts to engage him in conversation, an occurrence that was far less likely than it once was, he showed no signs of acknowledgment. 

Indeed, Dalton Conners seemed to dwell in his own desolate realm, which existed somewhere between ignorant bliss and amnesic helplessness. 

In fact, at one point Northridge saw it fit to bring in a neurologist, a middle-aged beer-bellied balding-at-the-crown doctor, to run some diagnostic tests for amnesia. Nothing amounted from them except that Mr. Conners became somewhat of an anomaly. Because even though he failed every attempt at cognitive testing, the MRIs, CT scans, and blood tests all came back negative. Poor Mr. Conners was not blind but unseeing, not deaf but unaware, not mute but silent. And after that disheartening visit from the doctor, it could be said with certainty that although he was not amnesic, the empty, unfortunate soul lacked retentive memory.  

One evening— well enough into December that mistletoe hung with flourish from the banisters, and yet not so late into the season that the early nights and wintry weather had begun to take its toll— the residents of Northridge were being ushered into the corridor by nurses and staff alike clad head-to-toe in Christmas colours. 

“We’ve got a special treat lined up for you guys,” Mrs. Hanson, the receptionist said with hushed excitement. She was pushing a woman’s wheelchair down the hallway where the rest of the residents were congregating, and as she walked, she leaned down to speak clearly into the woman’s ear. “I think you’re really gonna like it.”

Mrs. Hansen helped the woman park her chair, then headed up to the front of the crowd with the rest of the staff. “Right then, is that everyone?” she asked one of the nurses, clasping her hands and smiling towards the assembly of wheelchairs and walkers. 

“Almost,” was the hesitant reply. “Did you want us to bring, you know…” the nurse nodded her head in the direction of Mr. Dalton Connors’ firmly closed door. Unlike the entrances to the other residents’ rooms, Mr. Connors’ door wasn’t adorned with photographs of grandchildren, Christmas cards from loved ones, or childhood knickknacks. Other than the nametag fixed to the exterior, the door was completely bare. 

The staff looked at the door and then at each other. 

“Alright folks, that’s everyone!” Mrs. Hansen declared, clapping her hands together and addressing the expectant crowd. “Some of you have probably heard of Lillian Public School, just down the street from here.” A few excited claps and smiles emerged from the group. “Well, we have a few carolers from L.P.S. waiting in the lobby to sing to you folks.” As the receptionist, Mrs. Hansen was relatively unused to addressing the seniors at Northridge, and her voice had an inflection not unlike that of a grandparent addressing an infant, or a child addressing a puppy. 

At Mrs. Hansen’s invitation, a group of fifteen or twenty schoolchildren ranging in age from kindergartners to preteens, arranged themselves— altos on the left, sopranos on the right, and tenors and basses centerstage— and opened their songbooks. Each of them stood perfectly stone-faced and mannerly, a conduct which held far more pertinence in a classroom than in a Christmas concert, but which all the children conducted nonetheless. 

All but one, that is. Though his peers held themselves as stiff and as rigid as posts on a fence, Oliver Jones’ drooping posture betrayed his indignation. He was a blonde-haired, blue-eyed 12-year-old schoolboy with a dimpled babyface and boyish freckles. His choir uniform, which he wore with obvious objection, hung from his skinny, twig-like limbs like curtains from a rod.

Oliver’s discomfort wasn’t born out of sheepishness nor insecurity, but rather from the impression that singing Christmas carols with 5-year-old “babies” for a bunch of “old geezers” (as he would have put it) was below him. Nevertheless, he took out his songbook with the rest of his classmates, and mouthed the words listlessly.

“God rest ye merry gentlemen, let nothing you dismay.

Remember Christ our Saviour was born on Christmas day.”

Despite Oliver’s spiritless contribution, the children’s voices carried the haunting melody through the ancient retirement home. It trickled down the corridor down like a brook, washed past the peeling wallpaper on which generations of dust had settled, and crept into the crumbling skeleton framework of the building itself. 

“To save us all from Satan’s pow’r when we had gone astray,

O tidings of comfort and joy.”

Some of the less senior residents sang along as best they could, some clapped rhythmlessly, and still others listened contentedly, eyes closed and mouths smiling. 

“From God our Heavenly Father a blessed angel came;

And unto certain shepherds brought tidings of the same.”

From somewhere in the audience, an older woman started laughing brightly, and though the noise had escaped from lips that were cracked and shrunken with age, the laugh’s timbre was as youthful and ecstatic as that of a child in a chocolate shop. Mrs. Hansen started towards the woman to prevent further outburst, but another round of laughter had the receptionist doubling back, smiling to herself and shaking her head.

“How that in Bethlehem was born the Son of God by name.

O tidings of comfort and joy.”

Oliver Jones was less charmed by the woman’s burst of joy, and exasperation finally taking over, he rolled his eyes and pulled away from the group. His getaway was made easy, because his tenor voice— which had him at the center of the choir— as well as his lanky build— which had him at the back— allowed him to slip away unnoticed. With every disoriented step the boy took through the unfamiliar hallway, the echo of children’s dulcet voices faded further and further into the distance, and eventually it was replaced by a soft, ethereal voice, so angelic that it outdid the children’s choir entirely. 

“‘Fear not then,’ said the angel. ‘Let nothing you affright.’”

The voice was coming from inside a firmly closed door. Compared to the other doors Oliver had walked begrudgingly past, this one was unusually bare. There weren’t any of the grainy black-and-white pictures, Get Well Soon cards, or plastic ornaments that were plastered across the other entrances, and had it not been for the tiny voice escaping through the gap at the bottom, Oliver would have taken the room for a supply closet or a staff washroom.

“‘This day is born a Saviour of a pure virgin bright.’”

Unsure of what was moving him to do so, Oliver slowly turned the doorknob and poked his head tentatively inside. The room was musty and dark, but through the light that poured in from the fluorescently-lit hallway, Oliver could make out two sunken, half-closed eyes staring back at him from a rocking chair in the corner. 

“Hello?” Oliver said in a hushed voice. It didn’t seem appropriate to disturb the ghostly ambiance. 

The man slowly lifted his head and turned his grey eyes towards his unexpected visitor. “Who’s there?” he croaked. Unlike the divine resonance of his singing voice, his speech was ancient and cracked with age. “Who are you?”

“I’m Oliver, sir. I’m one of the carolers,” the boy introduced himself, before his conscience prompted him to add, nonchalantly, “well, not really. I don’t exactly sing.”

“Pity.” The man sighed. His voice’s cadence was choppy, and he seemed to select his words carefully as though each one was of acute cruciality.

“There ain’t nothin’ pitiful about it,” Oliver scoffed, suddenly defensive. His recalcitrance had always been met with discipline by teachers, admiration by friends, even mockery by peers, but it had certainly never been ‘pitied’ by anyone. “I got plenty to fill my time without affiliating with them sissies.”

“Seems as you do,” the man concurred, although by the way he gazed exaggeratedly around the dreary, lifeless bedroom, it was clear that he didn’t consider his own company to be any worthier of Oliver’s time than that of a bunch of ‘sissies.’ “If you don’t sing, then why are you in your little choir in the first place?”

“My mother enrolled me. Said it would be a ‘humbling experience,’ singin’ for you folks.”

“Reckon you should obey her. Might do you a world of good.”

“Reckon you should mind your own business,’ Oliver retorted. He had briefly forgotten he was in the presence of a man who was altogether stranger, elder, and host. Any of those titles alone would have been reason enough for Oliver to behave himself, but together, they should have produced in him a perfect gentleman. 

“Might do you a world of good,” the man repeated. He was looking at the carpeted floor, but something told Oliver he wasn’t fully present. An angonizingly silent moment passed, and the man lifted his eyes once more. On meeting Oliver’s gaze, a bewilderment passed over his face. “Who are you?” he demanded, visibly perplexed.

“Uh, I’m Oliver, remember? Oliver Jones.” 

“What are you doing here, Oliver Remember Oliver Jones?” His voice had a new, almost accusatory tone that contrasted his previous far-off way of speaking. “Shouldn’t you be off singing with the rest of your little group?”

“I couldn’t be bothered to finish the concert.” Oliver stated, equally confused as he was intrigued. 

“Pity,” the man said once again, this time with unmistakable contempt. “What I wouldn’t give to have a sturdy set of lungs like yours.”

“Why, your singing is simply brilliant. I daresay it should be you out there leading the choir.”

“Don’t suppose they be needin’ me out there.”

“Why not?” Oliver asked imploringly.

“I dunno,” the man said, bluntly. Narrowing his eyes and pursing his lips, he added, “Just don’t go missing out while ya still have the choice not to.” He nodded in the direction of the singing schoolchildren, whose final verses could barely be heard over the hum of the ceiling fan and the rocking of the man’s chair.

“I don’t suppose they do need you out there,” Oliver mused, consciously avoiding any talk of his singing and purposefully directing the conversation back to the man. “Although I don’t suppose they need any of ‘em other old folks either.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well they’re gettin’ paid to look after you, ain’t they? So maybe it ain’t really about their needs after all.” Oliver wasn’t entirely sure what he was getting at, but he couldn’t help thinking back to that radiant, transparent laughter from the woman in the hallway. “Seems to me you need that music in here more’n anyone.”

“Who are you?”

“What are you playing at? I’m O-L-I-V-E-R. I’m trying to help you.”

“Hello, Oliver.” The man closed his eyes and nodded his head enthusiastically to the distant melody. “Listen. Ya hear that? Wonder where it’s comin’ from.”

“Quit jokin’ around.”

“It’s a beautiful tune, ain’t it?”

Oliver’s bafflement mingled with his exasperation. “It’s ‘God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen.’ You were just singing it before.”

“It sounds perfectly elegant.” And then once more, “who are you?”

“I’m— oh, what does it matter.”

“Who are you?” the man repeated. “What are you doin’ here?” Genuine terror started to creep across his face until his eyes were wide and his body was tense. “What are you doin’ here?” he demanded again.

“I’m on my way out,” Oliver whispered. He made his way to the exit, knowing better than to further trigger the man’s fluster. He reached the door, and as he turned the knob, he paused to look back at the old man. “You know, you should really take your own advice. That is, don’t go missing out while you still have the choice not to.” At that, Oliver turned from his erratic host, slipped into the hallway, and gently closed the plain, undecorated door behind him. As soon as the door clicked shut, an astoundingly breathtaking melody emerged once again from behind it. 

“Now to the Lord sing praises, all you within this place.

And with true love and brotherhood, each other now embrace.”

Oliver turned and ran down the hallway, songbook in hand, to catch up with the rest of his classmates just as they were chanting the hymn’s final chorus.