Pine needles, golden flickers, fuzzy warmth...

Stretching out her legs was impossible. The flannel pj's with their footies were too small. Mom was always worried about cold feet. What, she wondered, would happen if her feet got cold? She wiggled underneath the sleeping bag. Bax had taken the couch. She had argued the point that she was a girl, and thus should have the couch, but such arguments rarely worked with her younger brother.

One strand of lights on the Christmas tree had a missing bulb, and the top third of the tree blinked erratically as a result. The golden light flickered like fire on the fireplace doors. She twitched again. And again. She scrunched her eyes closed and then flicked them open again. Nope. Stockings were still empty. Of course. Dad wasn't that fast.

She wiggled closer to the tree. Why did they call it "sleeping under the tree"? They weren't really under it. They were next to it. It would be more fun to lay under it, looking up through the branches, but Mom had protested when she had tried to squeeze under. She wiggled her nose. The yeasty smell of cinnamon rolls came from the kitchen. Christmas should come more than once a year.

She sat bolt upright at the first dong of the clock. Bother. Only 3 a.m. It was going to be many more hours before anyone else got up. 5 a.m. was probably a good time. People on farms got up at that time every morning. And people on farms didn't even have presents waiting, at least not most days. Another twitch. What time was it now?

3:02. She exhaled noisily. Maybe Bax would hear and wake up to share in her agony.

Nope. Not a move.

She lay back down. Turned to her other side and tried to fall asleep. The end of her sleeping bag crackled on wrapping paper, and she wiggled away from the tree. Christmas Eve was the longest night...

Ticking clock, cinnamon, Christmas 1992...