Wren looked at the angel. The angel looked back. "He's right," she said.
"I'm always right," Gus said. "It's my tragic flaw."
So they called a truce with the future. They bought more lights. They burned a pie and ordered Chinese food and ate it on the floor beside the tree, chopsticks clicking, fortune cookies predicting vague prosperities. Wren read hers aloud: An exciting opportunity awaits. She snorted. Dez's said: The heart knows the way. He folded it into his wallet beside his MetroCard. Gus's said: You will meet a stranger. He muttered that Elena was not a stranger and that fortune cookies should update their databases.
Christmas Eve morning, Dez woke early and walked alone to the Hudson Street lot. Most of the trees were gone. The salesman with the grapefruit pompom recognized him.
"Need another?" the man asked. "We got babies left. Tabletop. Reasonable."
"No," Dez said. "I came to say thank you for the giant."
The salesman squinted. "You tip good. Tree work out?"
"It negotiated with the ceiling. Then with everything else."