Funny how time seems to slow when one is waiting desperately for it to pass. For a 7-year-old, Jim was no exception. Every minute of that first week ticked by painfully sluggish to his anxious young heart as he watched the Inn guests come and go, the snow fall and melt, the sun rise and set. Mother had no time for him anymore; which at first was frustrating, as he tried to get her attention in any way he could, only to have her ignore him or snap at him With a sigh he would detach, play some meaningless game with himself and his broken toys, re-read old tales from dust books with withered spines, or sit at his place in the big window, watching the clouds sift by. There was nothing to wait for now, only muffled hopes.

At times he would go in and visit Daddy. Momma was right - he must have been very sick. Even at seven the boy could catch the thick scent of fever in the air when he stepped into the stuffy little room where his father had been locked away. Jim would pad across the creaking beams of the floor, eyes falling on crinkled papers and old letters strewn haphazardly around the bed. Dirty mugs splotched with the dregs of tealeaves and half-empty glasses were stacked by torn medicine packets and wilted photographs on the bedside dresser, punctuated with cheesy "Get Well Soon!" cards in faded colors and sympathetic notes of concern. Jim would climb gingerly unto the bed, the scent of cheap cologne, coal dust, and tealeaves filling him with a haze of memory; years later on the loneliest of nights, Jim could still recollect that scent of his father, and he would be blinded by those bitter memories he would learn to lock away.

The first time he visited, Leland smiled, listening attentively as the young boy prattled and spout anything that could be shared. Each time he came back, however, Daddy seemed to listen less and less, and smile less and less, to the point where Jim climbed up onto that bed one evening at the end of the week and there was nothing, nothing at all. The boy buried his face in the scent, clutching the blanket and murmuring for hours, until the murmurs eventually died and the sun set, and all that remained was a vast sheet of dark nothingness between father and son.

Something, Jim decided, had to be done. But try as he might, setting his young mind to think as much as he could (which Momma didn't like, as he was apt to break things wandering off in daydream), no solution came to him.

With the passing of the days came the herald of Christmas. It stung the air with the hint of baked cinnamon and the sap of evergreens. Snowflakes glistened as they fell on children's noses, to be rolled into snowballs and jolly snowaliens. Sarah set candles in the window and strung garlands of evergreen branches while Jim sat by the fire in his oversized pajamas, making crude decorations out of colored paper and yarn. A remarkable change seemed to come upon the people of Benbow, and despite the gloomy environment the atmosphere seemed almost buoyant; strangers smiled and greeted one another like old friends in the streets, carolers belted joyous tunes from carriages as they passed, streaming waves of snow on unfortunate onlookers, silver bells tinkling. The more fortunate bustled about the hamlet, purchasing gifts for loved ones, children cramming their pockets with sweets and lace.

The Christmas spirit had assuredly won over Benbow, but the wisps of it barely reached the windows of the Inn. The Hawkins family was hardly cheered by the luminous season, with less food on the table each night, if at all. The trickling income of the Inn was poured into doctor expenses and medical bills, hardly enough to support the three (much less the restaurant and inn), with nothing to spare for sparkling toffees or lavish gifts in bright packaging. The Hawkins family began to rely on the generosity of its friendships to get by; neighboring families would show up, blushing, to share some leftover where it "wasn't needed"; school friends shared their sweets and trinkets with Jim, even giving Patches a satin ribbon with a little bell to wear (the children were endlessly cheered by the sound of Patches' tinkling bell as she tottered about); Kent came to visit at times to keep Jim company while his mother was busy and his father clung to recovery, along with the ever-cheerful Rileys and the bumbling Doppler.

Delbert came to call one chilly afternoon at the start of Christmas week touting the most peculiar ornament Jim had ever seen. He stood back watching, amused, eyes sparkling with curiosity as the dog-like alien struggled to pull the object through the Inn door. Equally bemused, Sarah paused to gaze at the spectacle as Delbert finally wedged a large, bristling evergreen inside the room, which seemed to sprinkle needles with the slightest touch. The roots of the tree had been completely hacked off, and the boy wondered if the poor thing would just wilt away in a puff of needles any moment to leave a very sad looking skeleton on their parlor.

"Uh, Delbert…" Sarah edged, staring bewildered at his proud yet goofy grin, needles stick in his hair. "Why is there a tree in my Inn?"

"Hmm? Oh! Ah…. Well, it's not just a tree…" Delbert began, fussing with the needles in his hair trying to remove them - which turned out to be a horrible mistake, as his paws were sticky with tree sap, and were soon glued to the shimmering locks. "This is the tree!"

Jim giggled; Sarah raised a brow. "Is this something else of your Aunt's?" She pried, a smile tugging at her cheeks for the first time in days.

"Why yes, actually, now that you mention it. It's… rather a new tradition of the family. My uncle calls it a 'Christmas tree'; I thought it might help you with your, uh- Christmas cheer." He said, beaming, hair now thoroughly out of place and sticking every which way.

"What does it do?" Jim asked, stepping closer and peering around the tree. "Where do you plug it in? Does it use a solar crystal?"

"Uh… well, it doesn't do anything, exactly," Doppler replied with a canny, nervous grin. "And it doesn't 'plug in', per se… you just stick it by the fireplace and put decorations on it. Like the candles or the garland you have in the window."

"Oh." Jim sounded slightly disappointed. "Sounds boring."

"Shh, Jim!" Sarah hissed. "It's lovely, Delbert, thank you."

"No problem, Sarah! How is Mr. Hawkins coming along, pray tell?" Delbert pulled at the tree some more, leaving a trail of needles behind before it came to a disheveled rest beside the hearth. Jim glanced at the needles and began picking them up, one by one - one, two, five, eleven…

"Better, I suppose. He hardly talks to me now, though I know he can."

"Well that's a shame. That he isn't talking, I mean," Delbert added quickly. "Any thoughts on if he'll be better in time for the Christmas party?"

Sarah looked at the ground, shoulders slumped. "I'm not sure there will even be a Christmas party this year…"

Delbert's jaw dropped and Jim lost count. "What?" Delbert gasped. "But you have one here every year!"

Sarah was exasperated. "I just don't think we can afford it this year! Not with Leland out of work… not unless everyone else brought Christmas dinner…" She gave a dubious laugh at the mere thought of such an idea.

"That could be arranged."

"Well…" In a moment both were hanging off her arms, Jim on one and Delbert on the other, chiming a chorus of "Pleeasse!", "Please, momma, please?", and "Don't make me spend dinner with Grandma May! She's always teasing me about my clothes and my hair and…"

"Alright, alright!" Sarah shouted over their wails (Jim cheered and Delbert clapped his hands, chanting "No Grandma May! No Grandma May!"). "But you're cleaning up this mess first!"

Jim climbed up onto his father's bed later that night. The light of the stars and the Crescentia gave the room an ethereal glow. Leland was sitting up, seemingly lost in thought, making no acknowledgement of the boy's presence. Jim had expected this. He listened to his father's breathing, no longer as strained and congested as it had been a week ago, and watched his chest rise and fall, green eyes hardly discernable as they flickered in the dark.

"Daddy?" Jim whispered. Daddy's head tilted slightly, but otherwise there was no response. Jim looked away, then held out his clenched hand. Slowly his small fingers uncurled, revealing a few evergreen needles, ghostly in the starlight. "Mr. Doppler came today," The boy said softly, though it was as if he were speaking to an angel. "He brought a Christmas tree. It's downstairs. It's really pretty, now we're put my decorations on it. Momma thinks it's really pretty too. She wishes you could see it." He paused. "I brought you some. Do you like it?" Jim's eyes sparkled as he looked up desperately into his father's face, the needles in his cupped hands.

There was a long moment where Leland just started at the boy's gift, detached. Jim's breathing seemed to catch, his young heart beating anxiously in his chest. Slowly, painfully slow, Leland reached out a calloused hand and took the needles. He held them for a moment, then clasped his hand on the quilt. He opened his mouth, but no words came.

Jim dropped his hands and pulled his knees up, looking away from his father's face. Voices and memories flashed through his mind. "Will he be a miner, like his father?" "Your father won't be working anymore…" "… I wouldn't hang out with wimpy riffraff like Hawkins here. He probably couldn't afford it." "Jim, it's broken, you can't fix it." "No, I can fix it. I can fix it…"

He looked down at his small hands by his father's, so much larger than his own. Slowly a thought dawned on him; a plan, an idea, the only way to fix it. Surely it would work. Mommy would be proud, and Daddy… surely Daddy would love him then, he had to. Jim looked up at that face again. "Don't worry, Daddy. I'll set things right." He slipped off the bed and tottered to the door, casting his father one last, desperate look before walking out; just as his mother had done, though he wouldn't know it.

Leland sighed and held out his hand. He let the needles drop onto the quilt, scattered in the starlight. The game had to end.