2019-11-28 - Thankful for...

Who the fuck still gets the paper? Graham rolled his eyes at the thing and tossed it off the counter in front of him. Apparently, this was business ownership: the guy that was managing the motel was at home with his family or whatever, the guy that was supposed to be covering him called out sick, so here they were, on Thanksgiving Day, at the motel.

They'd figured it out. He loitered at the reception desk - it was dead around here--

Uhhh.

It was slow around here, so it's not like he had to do anything but kick his feet up and pass the time. They were still having turkey, goddammit, so El was back at the house most of the day. It had been a rough couple days, since - well, since what was on Sunday's paper, come to think of it. He got up and tossed the thing into the trash, flopped back down in the chair at the reception desk.

Sighed.

Got back up, took the paper out of the trash, and put it in the recycling. Then he flopped back down and fired off a text: When's my food, woman?!! She was gonna punch him for sure.

He had things to be thankful for. That was more than a lotta people could say.

"Hey, you know. I thought I'd have a problem with this." Duncan lifted the turkey leg he was gnawing, smiling a greasy-faced grin from the driver's seat of the camper to where Maddie was peering in through the window on the microwave. "But I'm actually really enjoying it."

They were watching old musicals on Maddie's iPad - or, well, the old musicals were on, but mostly Maddie was providing the entertainment. Duncan's part of the quest had been to secure food, and it had been a harrowing adventure, let me tell you. For starters, he still didn't trust the Safeway in this town, 'cause what kind of store runs out of chicken soup? A bad one, that's what kind, the kind you can't trust. So he'd had to go over into that one Ho-town whose name was too fucking hard to pronounce, where he realized that there was no way they could cook a whole turkey plus apparently it takes like three days to defrost one and Thanksgiving was like nine hours from now.

He shoulda gone earlier, but he had a lot of other things to take care of!

Look, the end result was - they got some pretty good food, and. Okay. So. Technically he spent all the money for food for, like, a month. But that's just whatever, they'd get more money for food later. Or just go to the church or something. Churches are always giving out food.

Right now, he had a big ol' turkey leg, someone he <3ed belting out showtunes at him, and a skeleton in a pilgrim hat riding shotgun.

Flickering, flashing lights played off his impassive face. The lights came from the attractions at Boardwalk, meant to attract attention the way moving targets do and he was a victim to their ocular screech as much as anyone else. At least until he learns to drown them out. When his hand began to ache from holding the blind open for as long as he held it open, the meaty paw rested on the window still to the side, so he could continue to look outside his second-story apartment. His other hand felt the lick of condensation rolling over his knuckles; the light beer in his hand still cold, but warming. Long lashes blinked slowly, army green eyes glanced south, towards where his ocean view would be if it weren't so dark.

Movement attracted his attention back down to the boardwalk. Watching a pair of people walking over the planks, he thought expletives he would have to be pressed to give voice too and he preferred his assaults to be more physical than aural. Even though their enjoyment gave him a pang. So, instead, he watched the couple until they passed by and out of his view. Brooding made him thirsty and tipping his head back he brought the long neck to his lips and felt the cool amber fluid leave a chill down his throat to his chest.

Pulling the quaff back, the large man pulled himself from the window, and with short strides crossed to the unmarked refrigerator. Opening the freezer, he extracts a rectangular, boxed and frozen meal. He read the label again: Turkey, mashed potatoes and gravy. Some kind of carrot and pea combination. Hesitation. It won't look this good after he's opened his thanksgiving meal, he knew, Great Value or otherwise.

And he was right.
Putting the beer bottle down, the bully tore into the package negligently and stared at it. Sometime before it froze, all of it was mashed together. Into one festive crap pile. Staring at it, he couldn't help but feel it was allegorical. And with a disheartened sigh, he popped open his microwave, and slotted his Thanksgiving meal inside; something that promised to fill that empty hole and quick.

Thanksgiving trudged on without him.
What does he have to be thankful for anyway?

An alarm goes off on a nightstand next to a bed that's already empty. From the floor, an arm reaches up, fumbles around, then manages to silence the beeping. Then Tyrone goes back to his push-ups. (95 ... 96 ... 97 ... 98 ... 99 ... 100,)Oo. he counts in his head. Sweating, he flips himself over onto his back. Then, he does his best to lift his shoulders off the floor. A year ago, he would have done 500 sit-ups. Hell, six months ago he would have done the same. Now? He gives up when he gets to 37.

It takes a little longer to catch his breath now. Heart rate still ticks down fairly quickly, but it's harder to breath when you don't have full use of all your stomach muscles. He covers his face with both hands and closes his eyes. Like usual, he's angry. It's the feeling that he feels in place of being sad, because being sad never got anything done. So he gets mad instead, grits his teeth and screams his indignation silently in his head. Then he exhales, relaxes his shoulders, and lets it go. It'll be back soon enough, anyway.

Later in the morning, Tyrone is up, in his wheelchair, polishing his boots. It's the last part of the ritual. The midnight blue overcoat has already been pressed and is currently awaiting folding on his bed. Same go for the medium blue pants laid out beneath them. Try to call them sky blue and he'll still punch you in the mother-loving throat. He used to be able to get his uniform in parade shape in about ten or fifteen minutes. It's been 30 already. He's not even sure WHY he's doing it- he doesn't know if Gray Harbor has a parade or not. But, it's a holiday, and like any good Boy Scout, Tyrone is going to Be Prepared.

By afternoon, though, his phone hasn't rang and there hasn't been any talk of a parade. He put the uniform on, anyway. It's only the second time he's worn it since being shot- the first was when he traveled from the hospital to Gray Harbor. No matter how many girls it might get him, he's not allowed to wear it whenever he wants and he abides by that rule. Because he's a Marine, and that's what you do. But today, he's wearing the uniform again, parade or no parade. No one's going to see it, anyway. It's a holiday. Everything is closed. Easton is probably with Bennie. Harper has her man. Who knows where Lyric is. And Haven? She's impossible to get a hold of. There was a big community service thing he could go to, but ... he's not in the mood. Besides, he DID his service! Why should he be asked to give any more than he's already given. Isn't the use of his legs enough?

That train of thought always leads to dark places, so Tyrone turns on the TV. It's honestly the most expensive thing in his house, so he might as well make some use of it. His antenna on the wall doesn't get great reception, but it's Thanksgiving and EVERYWHERE is showing football. So that's what he watches. The game is ... well, it's not bad. It's not great, but at least it's a distraction. He doesn't care about the teams that are playing, so he's not really that interested. It's just something to pass the time and keep him from dwelling.

Until it's suppertime. One of the benefits of his spinal cord injury is that he doesn't really feel hunger pains like he used to, so he generally only eats once a day. Which means it's not until evening when he rolls into the kitchen and puts water in a pot, which he then sets on the stove to boil. He gets into his cupboard and pulls out a box of macaroni and cheese- one of the few meals he knows how to cook. Lucky for him, it's his favorite thing to eat.

Cooking doesn't take long. Maybe fifteen minutes or so. Then he has to wait for it to cool. He gets a beer out of the fridge and sets it on the counter next to his plate. He doesn't own a table. No reason to- he can just set things on the counter. So once the food is cool, he settles in to eat. The thought of praying crosses his mind, but he never prayed before and didn't see the point, now. If God wanted anything to do with him, He should have let him know. And no, getting shot did NOT seem like a good call to repentance, or whatever the Lord called people for.

As he ate, Tyrone's mind wandered. What was he doing? Where was he going? He hadn't tried to call his family at all. Maybe he should. But, then, they hadn't called HIM, either. Really, since his father died, he had no reason to talk to anyone else in his family. They could all take a hike. He couldn't, anymore. But was there anything that he was thankful for? Thankful to be alive? ... well, it seemed to beat the alternative. Thankful for his health? Yeah, okay, he was glad he wasn't sick. Glad he wasn't homeless. Glad he'd found a job, if only part time. Glad he'd found some gyms to go to and people to help him maintain his strength. Glad Easton was around. Glad he'd met ....

Harper, sure. He was glad he met her. She was really nice and totally hot in a best-friend's-mom kinda way. Who else? Lyric? ... god, she was gorgeous, but he couldn't understand her. He'd tried. He'd done everything he could and had only succeeded in putting up a wall between them. He hadn't even seen or heard from her since their date a few weeks ago. Probably for the best, though.

Haven. Okay, so she'd managed to save his life when Easton disappeared in the Dream so he definitely had to be glad he'd met her. And he'd taken her out for the drink he'd promised and she was really thoughtful and kinda fun and quirky, but .... But what? He didn't know. They got along, but ... there wasn't anything else there. Not yet, anyway. They weren't friends, yet. They probably would be. If nothing else, then friends at least. So yes, thankful to meet her.

But who else? He could run off a few names in his mind, but ... he really didn't have strong enough opinions or enough experience with any of the other people in the Harbor to know whether he was thankful to have met them or not. He didn't really HAVE anybody. Which is why he was sitting in his kitchen, eating macaroni and cheese in his Dress Blues all by himself.

And there was that depression again. If he hadn't been shot, where would he be? Maybe back in Afghanistan? Maybe somewhere else? But, no matter where, he'd be with his Brothers. He'd be where he belonged, with the Marines. With the other men and women who knew how he felt and understood what it meant to be a God Damn Mother F*ing United States Marine Corps Infantry Mother F*er. Hoo-rah! And now what was he? Some crippled gimp, sitting alone in his apartment, clinging to a life that had no use for him anymore, eating a sorry meal and feeling bad about himself. Oh, what a pitiful life for Tyrone. Everyone feel sorry for the little cripple. And now it was anger again.

Maybe he'd get lucky and would Dream again tonight. If he did, he was gonna make sure to really mess some stuff up over there. Except he'd use much stronger language. Finishing the macaroni and cheese, he rinsed the dishes off in the sink and grabbed another beer. He then laid down on the cheap sofa he'd bought, turned the TV up, and waited to fall asleep again. Maybe he'd find something to be thankful for in a Dream.

“Open you hearts, and by hearts, I mean your wallets, you mouthbreathing neckbeards!”

MacTheKnife was in rare form. Second year running of the channel’s Thanksgiving event, a tradition she had started when it had become a little too… strained… to return home for Christmas. After that whole self-defense thing…

“I am 5 drinks in and my K:DA is still over 2. Pay up BEHHHHTCHEEEES.” she intones into her mic. “If you’re just tuning in, this is my annual Thanksgiving Charity Stream! I’m getting wasted, and you suckers are playing over/under with my ability to maintain my play as my ABC cliiiimbs!...” She leans fully into her mic, the reverb almost painful as she lowers her voice, “FOR CHARITY!” In the typical drunk stream fashion, she smacks a button, and her Stupid Noise Sound Board plays that super typical rap song sputtered Air Horn.

“‘Mac?’ you might be asking. ‘Why are we doing this? Are you just making us give money while you get drunk?’ YES, is the answer, and it's FOR THE KIDS! LIKE THIS ONE.” A little piece of paper is held up, the Angel Tree ornament she had skillfully made off with, thankfully close enough to the camera the words are too blurry, as no doubt someone probably didn’t want their child’s name splashed over the internet in the stream of a rampant alcoholic binge. Her eyes squint at the window, “Wait, wha- UGH!” The bottle is raised to her lips again as she realizes her chat room had exploded, calling her out for another swear, a penalty drink owed. “I hate you people from the depth of my black heart.” Black Heart emojis quite predictably fill the chat window as she continues, “As you all know, donations… go… here!” She had been finding something with her mouse, and as she brings her finger that was in frame to a point, a hyperlink pops up in the window at the perfect spot. “All details for the charity this will be donated to are there, verify to your hearts’ content, BUT CAN WE PLEASE GET BACK TO PLAYING!”

And that was her night, screaming into the microphone at colorfully rendered enemies, drinking every time she swore, died, missed easy skillshots, whatever clever ways she could come up with to torture herself. A compilation video of it made the rounds the next day, ‘Five F*cks in Four Seconds,’ a perfectly music matched scene of Abitha getting killed and yelling the F-word in 5 separate instances, followed by 5 different shots of her raising a bottle to drink. The final shot doesn’t even have her in frame, the chair she sat in having tipped over and sitting off-kilter, her voice ringing out, sounding far away and horribly slurred as one might expect, “I hate you people!” It had only been about hour 4, near midnight, when the buzzer announced her descent into scrub-like stat blocks, but she had continued on until about 2am when the chair incident happened.

The stream auto-disconnected at 3.

It was going to be Cole's first Thanksgiving away from home. He'd thought about flying back to Boston, if only to see some old friends, maybe check in on his parents, his siblings, at least see how they were doing. But they hadn't called him since he'd left. He'd written home once, twice, but never got a response. He knew he'd disappointed them when he'd left. He knew they didn't understand why he'd gone, but he'd thought they'd at least try to stay in touch, try to maintain some kind of contact. He'd texted his siblings a couple of times, but there had been silence. At first he'd been worried, but then he checked their Facebooks, their Instagrams, and there they were, smiling and going on as always. No. It was just him that they weren't talking to.

He sat in his room, staring at the walls. He'd moved to the new house with the band when Lyric had wanted to move out of the trailer. He'd thought it would be fun, that having more roommates would be good for him, an opportunity to meet more people, maybe be more social. Truth was, he almost never saw them. They all had their own lives and their own things going on, and somehow he just didn't feel like he fit into any of it. Falling back on the bed he stared at the ceiling, trying to make out patterns in the textured swirl of white. He'd come here in search of something, and yet, he hadn't gotten any closer to finding any answers, or any guidance.

He was thankful for the nice couple that had retired, allowing him to take over Dance Evolution.
He was thankful for having the ballet classes that he taught and the students that gave him something to focus on.
He was thankful that he was still growing stronger every day, back to the strength that he had when he'd been dancing professionally, before the accident.
He was thankful for Lyric, who had made Gray Harbor a little less lonely when he'd first arrived.

He had things to be thankful for. Rubbing at his face, he pulled himself up once more, and began to get ready. It was time to go downtown to serve some food to people who were hungry, to stop feeling sorry for himself, and to maybe do something nice for someone who could use it a lot more than he could.

Jaime Lee Kelly sat on the back porch of the Kelly Family house. In the not too distant future, the insanity of Thanksgiving Day would begin. The house already smelled good. Several dishes had been prepared or purchased the night before, and as guests would arrive with more pot-luck items, the feast would inevitably grow to epic proportions.

But for now, Jaime sat on the back porch, with a bowl of cereal cradled in his hands, looking over at the tousel-haired moppet seated next to him. She, like he, was still in her PJs, bare toes wiggling on the cold wood of the step, wrapped in a jacket, just like him. This was their morning tradition. He wasn't sure when it started -- maybe during the summer when it was warmer, and the jackets weren't necessary. But there they sat, side by side, eating cereal, listening to the morning sounds of the neighborhood -- cars backfiring, the occasional shout from a few houses down, the strangled shriek of a pair of cats fighting over back alley territory, that sort of thing.

"Jaime?" Jess asked, looking up at him thoughtfully, bowl clutched in her hands so it wouldn't spill.

"Yeah?"

"How does grandma eat pie if she can't pick things up?" Jess asked.

"Grandma eats the memory of pie," Jaime explains. "She remembers what it's like, and what it smells like, and what it tastes like, so when we all get together, she remembers what that was like too, and she can enjoy it with us."

"If Grandma eats the memory of pie, does that make everyone forget pie?" Jess asks, suddenly deeply concerned in only the way a five year old can be concerned about forgetting pie.

"No," Jaime says, reaching over to ruffle her hair, "It's grandma's own memory, and she can't destroy that memory because she's a ghost, and her memories just keep going over and over again. Like when she tells you the same bedtime story every night."

"I like Grandma's bedtime stories," Jess decides, returning to eating her cereal.

"Yeah, me too, kiddo," Jaime tells her.

Upstairs, Ma Kelly moves through the room that had once been hers, setting out her favorite dress, and drawing a brush through her hair in front of the mirror that she had sat before so many times. She didn't notice that the mirror wasn't there anymore, or the bed, for that matter. The pile of boxes weren't there for her, nor the cobwebs, or the dropcloth over the head and footboard set against the wall at an angle so that they wouldn't tip. She sat on the small stool in front of the dressing table and fastened one earing and then the other, humming a soft tune under her breath.

Soon, her boys would be starting up the cooking and the guests would be arriving, and she would be there to make sure that everyone managed to come out of the holiday unscathed, as she had been doing their whole lives. She smiled as she heard the voices coming up from below, not quite making out what they were saying, but knowing that it was Jaime and Jess. With one more sweep of her hand over her hair to make sure it was in place, she rose from the stool and picked up a watch that wasn't there, slipping it onto her wrist, and descending the stairs. There were preparations to make.

They're at Powell's (because of course they are) when August finds it. That ratty old journal of his.

Eleanor's been dying to go, and of course August will never say no to Powell's. They make time just after the conversation with the local Glimmer set, a few hours to spend tooling around between lunch and dinner. A perfect afternoon, the sort August grew up with. His family had never been able to afford much in the way of gifts during the holidays, but a trip to Powell's could be just as good. You never knew when a gently used copy of something might turn up.

He and Eleanor inevitably split up, having different things they wanted to look at; August is keen to see what interesting local plant guides have cropped up since he moved to Washington all those years ago.

He pulls out a trail book for the Columbia River Gorge, and out falls a small, brown, leather bound journal, tattered and worn, water damaged and dog-eared. A chill runs down his spine as he stares at the hand-tooled picture on the cover, cracked and warped: an elk.

It can't be the same one. He lost it that night when the storm drain had flooded. He and Oliver had been lucky to get out of there with their lives. All for a herd of goslings. It was the sort of thing August and Oliver had been forever getting themselves into: feeding crows to see if they'd bring them something cool (they would), helping little kids find their lost toys and balls in the foreboding Salal bushes that lined the river, sneaking into the Shanghai tunnels to try and map them.

When he was 10, August's Aunt Rose (his mother's older sister) gave him a lovely, handmade journal at Thanksgiving. She'd seen the budding explorer in him: three years later she began teaching him to camp and shoot; two years after that she took him on his first youth turkey hunt. (Five years after that Rose died of a stroke while he was dodging mortar shells, and he never saw her again.)

Everything he and Oliver did went into that journal. He'd been no great artist, but he'd done his best to draw the things they came across, take notes, sketch maps. Very rarely, an entry of his thoughts on something. And that included the weird things: the crow that had spoken to him; the brightly colored, glowing algae he saw sometimes in the tunnels; the herd of multicolored sheep he'd seen in an alleyway in Old Town that had simply vanished the moment he noticed them.

He leans over and picks it up, opens to a drawing in the center. A crow (roughly), with a speech bubble: I don't like garbage at all, you know. It's just sometimes that's all there is. He flips to another page. It's a description of the river duck family he and his sisters had decided was 'theirs'. He'd chronicled their hatching and growth as far as he could.

He shuts the journal, stares at the cover. Oliver had joined the Navy at the same time August had joined the Army. They'd tried to maintain contact, but had ultimately drifted apart while August was in Bosnia. Then had come everything else, and by the time they'd reconnected via email (when August was just finishing his PhD), they'd become different people. Gone were the two boys exploring rail yards and parks and river banks with a beat up journal.

So how had it gotten here?

As he's flipping through it, he sees some fresher ink scrawled on the first empty, water-wrinkled page.

they said you lost this -- told me to put it here, not my fault if you don't find it

The writing is barely legible, looks scratched out by an uncertain ink nib. It wasn't blotted before the journal was shut, so it's smeared some, and left an impression on the opposing page.

they said you lost this

August turns the journal over in his hands, checks the inside front cover. 'A J Roen' is written clearly in big block letters.

He sighs, makes sure no one is watching, tucks the journal into his pocket. He'll worry about who sent it back his way later.

In all of her years, Erin had never spent a Thanksgiving alone. Not any holiday really. This year was different though. There wouldn't even be a phone call from her parents. The day before Thanksgiving she'd spent it with as many other people as she could fit in at the community center. She'd even managed to take a few leftovers home in anticipation of having a dinner there alone. But here it was. Thanksgiving morning. There was absolutely zero desire to spend it alone. Her grandmother hadn't extended any last minute invitations to the family home wherever the Addingtons live(tm). Not that she'd expected it though.

So, considering her options, one stood out.
Her very best friend.
Taking out her phone, she dials a number and lets it ring.
Finally, there was an answer after like the fifth ring.
"Hey, sorry, did I wake you? I know it's early, I didn't know if you had any plans. Would you like to go hiking? I can meet you at Spoon Creek Falls. We likely won't get back in time for lunch, but we'll make sure to get back for dinner so you can have it with your family. I'll even bring a lunch for us."
He'd actually sounded somewhat eager for it. Jack was never eager.
This would be fun. Erin was thankful for her friend and they didn't have to spend the day alone.
So they set out hiking, avoiding the path that had been washed out in favor of a more experienced one beside it. There was a storm brewing though, a storm that seemed to miss Gray Harbor, luckily.
But now it's the day after Thanksgiving and neither Erin or Jack are home. His truck is gone from his drive but Erin's is safely in hers, because she'd taken an Uber.
Probably they were just camping out.

Early morning Andi Johnson leaves the house before her family wakes to begin preparing the meal for the day. It was nice and quiet and the morning was brisk. They say the coldest part of the day was just before dawn. She pulls up at the cemetery by the church and like she had so many times before, she walks over to a single grave marked with a name that, just seeing it etched in the stone there, cause such intense anger to burn like a fire inside her. Walking over, she stands over the grave, letting the hatred consume her. Letting her feel it without pushing it away. Gohl the tombstone read. "Just a reminder," she says aloud. "I've not forgotten what you took from me." And again she stands there and draws her gun and points it down towards the grave and again she fights the demons, wondering which will win. The hate was real, it was palpable. It's a battle she fights every single morning. Alone.

For a long moment she stands there wondering which side would win. The anger or the desolation. Reaching down she racks the slide back, chambering the round. It was a soothing sound. In the early morning silence she could hear every sound as the spring in the mag pushes the round into place.
Who did she really hate though? Him? He'd done exactly nothing to her. Not a damn thing.

She had voluntarily placed her most valuable possessions inside his coffin with him. Tears fill her eyes. Tears of anger, because sadness was a luxury she denied herself. The gun is quickly lifted to her head, then quickly lowered and she puts it in her mouth. Every morning this was her battle. Andi had to force herself to find a reason to put the gun on safety and save her own self. The negative pulled at her. It was Thanksgiving. Another Thanksgiving without her. Withdrawing the gun from her mouth she drops to her knees and lifts a handful of the dirt from the grave where grass still hadn't grown over yet. Holding it in her fist she breaks down. Why couldn't she just end it?

Krissy.

The answer comes today like it had the day before. Her little sister needed her. Her little sister that turned out not to be her little sister at all. She was a Baxter. She was related to Gohl.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Krissy was coming for Thanksgiving from the safe place she had been since everything happened with Gohl. Andi wanted to see that light in her eyes again when her sister saw her. Closing her eyes she tests the weight of the gun in her hand. Tempting. So God damn tempting. Not today. Maybe tomorrow. Dropping the handful of dirt, she carefully releases the magazine then pulls back the slide and unchambers the live round and flicks it to safety. After slipping the bullet back into the magazine, she reloads the gun and reholsters it. The hate was still there for Gohl. "Fuck you, fucker." Getting to her feet, she walks back to her car so she can go home and help with Thanksgiving dinner. Her partner Rick was joining them. She had to put on her A game.

Again.

Lyric left a note on her fridge at the home she shared with her friends. She had plans for Thanksgiving. Once she had done that she had set out on foot as usual and left for the Church. Stopping inside, she'd eaten a free meal then she'd finished the last leg of her journey. The shortest one.

There's a brief stop by a grave with the headstone Brandon Campbell and she kneels beside it. Reaching inside her satchel she carries across her body, she tugs out one long stemmed rose dyed orange.
"Orange reminds me of you cause pumpkins." She places it nearby the Superman light she had brought him before. "But pumpkins are good for Halloween and for Thanksgiving. I'm thankful I met you. I will always come to see you and before I go home, I'll stop by and sing twinkle, twinkle little star to you again. Because you're like a little star. You're so bright, nothing can make you go away forever. Thank you for sharing your Halloween with me." Lyric lingers there for a little while, but eventually, she tells him goodbye for now and makes her way to an older grave.

Arriving at her mothers grave, Lyric has a seat by the small headstone. It's still just mostly a name placard. "Hi Mama." The words are soft. "Happy Thanksgiving. Maybe for Christmas I'll have your present ready. I've been saving and saving. It's easier now since I'm out of the trailer park. I'm sharing a house with more people and I can save more because I get paid better. I'll get your headstone with your name on it and music notes." Her mother loved music as much as Lyric did, perhaps that's why the name her mother had given her. She lays down and twirls her fingers through some blades of grass that were no longer green with the winter season moving in.

"I heard a song the other day and I learned it so I could sing it for you." She turns so she's laying on her back and looking up at the sky while laying along side her mother. "It's a pretty song. I hope you like it. I'm still writing a song for you. One day it'll be finished. But today it's this one for you."

"Shattered like you've never been before
The life you knew
In a thousand pieces on the floor
Words fall short at time like these
When this world drives you to your knees
You think you're never gonna get back
To the you that used to be."

"Tell your heart to beat again
Close your eyes and breathe it in
Let the shadows fall away
Step into the light of grace."

"Yesterdays a closing door
You don't live there anymore
Say goodbye to where you been
Tell your heart to beat again."

"Beginning just let that word wash over you
It's all right now
Loves healing hands have pulled you through"

"So get back up
Take step one
Leave the darkness
Feel the sun
Cuz your story's far from over
And your journeys just begun."

"Tell your heart to beat again
Close your eyes and breathe it in
Let the shadows fall away
Step into the light of grace."

"Yesterdays a closing door
You don't live there anymore
Say goodbye to where you been
Tell your heart to beat again."

"Let every heartbreak
And every scar
Be a picture that reminds you
Who has carried you this far."

With the lyrics over, she hums a little more of the tune. Of course she's crying by now, just missing mostly what she'd barely known. The love of her mother. She sniffles and turns back to her side and closes her eyes, curling up a little. "I brought you some roses, Mama. A whole rainbow of colors, bright ones like I remember you. So bright."

Opening her satchel she brings out several roses. Purple, pink, red, yellow, white, peach. They are wrapped in a clear wrap from the florist, and she places them near the marker. "Happy Thanksgiving. I'm going to spend the whole day with you."

And she does. Eventually leaving when it starts to get dark, stopping by to tell Brandon goodnight on her way out and to sing him the song she promised. At the gates, she looks back once before going home.

A year.

It’s been a year. Less a few days, but Thanksgiving was the holiday where it all went so very fucking wrong. Close enough.

Jacob was so sure that he was on the right track to the fabled good life. Had a wi--well, a spouse, they’d had their first child and thinking about having another. His medical residency program was just about to be completed in a few short months, and the spouse was already practicing for a few years now. He managed to get a few days off for Thanksgiving SOMEHOW, so why not visit the family?

Yeah, why not. What could go wrong. Who could predict that his car would get side swiped by a semi truck, sending the three of them into oncoming traffic? Who could predict that Jacob would be the only one who would survive? Who could predict that, if Jacob had not been placed into a coma, he could have used his glimmer abilities to save his family? Nobody could, but that doesn’t stop him from blaming himself for it.

Jacob’s at home, naked save for underwear and socks. It’s stupidly late on the evening before Thanksgiving. His hair’s a mess, he’s sweaty, the mostly empty apartment at the Bayside is littered in empty whiskey bottles from the last few days, though tonight, he’s in a lot deeper than he had been allowing himself to get. The office was closed today, and it’ll be closed tomorrow. Maybe even the day after that. And frankly, given his emotional state, he’d be in no state to see patients even if he was sober, which he definitely is not.

On the couch, the ginger doctor just stares blankly at the big screen television. There’s something utterly banal playing, not by his own choosing. He’s way inside his own head tonight.

It’s stupid. It doesn’t make sense. If the circumstances would’ve been different, none of this would have happened. What if they’d left a minute earlier? What if they’d driven instead? What if they’d just stayed the fuck home like they wanted to?

Why’d it have to be HIM that made it, anyways? What’s the point of being given a gift to heal others if you can’t even save your own fucking family?

The thoughts inside his head go round and round in those sorts of illogical circles, emotions slowly boiling away until, finally, he reaches a breaking point. But the instigator of that isn’t anything in his own head. It’s the fucking TV. It’s that fucking commercial again. With the annoying woman, with the annoying voice. He can hardly even remember what it’s for, but he CAN remember that it pisses him off like nothing else.

With a snarl, and a guttural yell, he hurls the nearly empty bottle of Maker’s Mark that he had been nursing (not the first one of the night) directly at the television. The bottle breaks, the screen cracks, the colors go all wonky, and the telltale ink blot of the broken LCD panel spreads outwards from the impact spot. The television itself is tipped over from the sheer impact of the bottle, falling off of the stand, and against the wall immediately behind it.

Jacob stands, tears streaming down his face, fists clenched in anger. He just stares in the direction of where the television had been, but then turns and storms off to the bathroom, where in he attempts to purge himself of the contents of his stomach, since it doesn't seem to be working to purge his mind of his emotions

Staring at himself in the hospital mirror Easton tries not to focus on the burns up along his chest as he finally takes a pair of clippers to his singed beard. He brings it down as close as the clippers will go, not clean shaven, but far enough that you can't see the areas shriveled by the heat of the fireball. He examines his jaw and throat, and lets out a ragged sigh at the light bruising revealed under his beard. "Well that's fucking embarrassing." He uses the industrial mirror to examine his chest, the areas of burnt skin mostly covered but he tries to imagine what it will look like healed. He checks the rest of his torso for bruises or bandaged wounds, trying to remember as much as possible how the attack went.

Walking out of the bathroom past a sleeping Bennie, he nods to the nurse who is in there checking vitals or whatever it is they do in the middle of the night.

He sits down on the bed, and closes his eyes. He fights back the memory of being stuck in a hospital bed for weeks after his injury. He clenches his jaw as he goes through the effort of taking his prosthetic leg off and laying back into bed. He insisted on wearing pants and not the gown, not for modesty reasons as he couldn't care less about those, but because the gown is just too much of a reminder. As it is he is doing everything he can not to think about the smell, the feel of the terrible thin blankets, the crunch of the mattress when he moves. He gives his mind a task, something orderly to do to distract from all the memories pressing up against his mind for attention.

Things he should be doing:
* Being thankful that Bennie is alive and that they're okay
* Replaying the attack in his head, studying their moves, looking for ways to take them out more efficiently next time
* Text Geoff jokes about stuffing turkeys or pilgrim sex
* Call Tyrone, make sure he has plans or people
* Call Erin, make sure she has plans or people
* Call Jenny, make sure she has plans or people
* Figure out a way to tell Bennie
* Getting some actual rest

He shakes his head looks around at what he's actually doing:
* Drinking. Again.
* Watching college football highlights from the day's games
* Watching Bennie sleeping with that super weird rabbit thing
* Avoiding talking to anyone
* Ignoring that feeling that someone is watching him
* Avoiding sleep

Waving a towel uselessly in the air and staring down at yet another blackened pie that was supposed to be apple and not soot, Clarissa wondered about the life choices that had brought her here. Not to Gray Harbor, but to slaving over a hot stove in a (central air controlled) hot kitchen in this (multi-million dollar) damn house feeling annoyed and devastated that yet another pie had burned. Surely it was the fault of the (several thousand dollars worth of) cheap convection oven. What did convection even mean anyway? She'd tried to ask Siri to Google it but just got the times for a local anime convention instead. The simple fact was that technology was just out to get her or something was broken and it had nothing to do with how she'd spent the last several hours decorating for a Thanksgiving dinner that wouldn't happen here that no one but her would appreciate.

The candles did look nice though. The all-white interior was now bedecked with deep oranges and cranberries and rich browns and yellows. Festive pumpkin bowls and turkey napkin rings dotted the table and all the vases overflowed with Thanksgiving day arrangements of branches with bright red berries. And then she had to get dressed, which involved several wardrobe changes in the master bedroom where it turns out one can't hear the timer on said terrible oven and while the pie looked awful, Clarissa herself looked pretty amazing in a festive brown dress, tight in all the right places, accented with golf leaf jewelry in varying shades of gold. She drummed her fingers on the counter, giving the two ruined pies accusatory looks. She couldn't show up empty handed. But store bought pies wouldn't do. And all of her staff had the day off except...

"Michael? It's Clarissa. You mentioned your mother made a great pumpkin pie that you were looking forward to this year? Well, grab one and be here in an hour."

A day of feasting and a day of prayer, that's what Zachary and Alexander had decided on for Thanksgiving, and the compound's cafeteria was filled with lively conversations as the first part got underway. They were about two dozen regular members, at this point, and there were another dozen or so that they'd picked up for the dinner; homeless, runaways, junkies, and a few truckers and prostitutes from the surrounding truck stops. There was no 'serving of the poor', exactly; Zachary felt that it only served to put a divide against people who should have no divisions except those imposed by God, so everyone took part in some part of the serving or clean-up, and everyone ate together. Tomorrow would be spent in quiet prayer. "You know we're going to lose, like, eighty percent of them tomorrow," Alexander murmured, between bites of stuffing. "Unless your plan is to keep them in food coma the whole day." He lifted his brow teasingly at the other man.

"But the ones that leave will remember us fondly," Zachary replied, gently. "This place is our church now. Some who leave will long for the peace and belonging we provide, and want to return. The shepherd does not chain the sheep, but rather guides them with voice and staff." His eyes were a deep blue, and scanned the laughing people with a paternal sort of pride, even though he was only about twenty-four. They both were about the same age, although he didn't know Zachary's exact birthdate. Zachary nodded to one. A grizzled, older man who was telling probably-not-church-appropriate jokes to the church members beside him. Their laughter was genuine, if shocked, so he probably had a talent for the telling. "Do you see what I see?"

Alexander nodded. The man stood out. Not as much as Zachary, or Alexander, in fact he barely changed the focus of the world at all, but he still stood out. Knowing what the next question would be, he reached out with his mind, brushing the other man's gently. "He won't want to stay. He doesn't like the walls."

"What about the fields? We could have a camp made, and we've been having problems with rabbits in the lower quad anyway. Could use someone out there to hunt and trap them."

Alexander gently picked over the man's mind, found those feelings of loneliness that he was expecting, and gently enhanced them. Loneliness and pleasure, and that indefinable feeling that was a sense of home. "Might work," he said, after a moment. A sideways glance. "What do you think his role is? What did God choose him for?"

Zachary laughed, softly, and slung an easy arm around Alexander's shoulders, pulling him close. Alexander tried to ignore the way his heart leapt and fluttered when the man squeezed playfully. "I have no idea. But isn't exciting to have the chance to find out?" Watching the bright warmth of Zachary's smile, Alexander keenly felt the desire to capture this day and hide it away somewhere, where he could bring it out and hold it up to the sun whenever he felt lost, or sick to his stomach. This was what they were supposed to be; he felt the rightness of it.

If Alexander's duties could help make every day like this, then he'd do them without complaint.

Carter Reid had turned 18 that spring, putting him out of the foster system and on his own -- an adult. Claire was still with the family that had been fostering them. She'd still have a place for another couple of years, people to look after her, to make sure she kept in school, while he tried to figure out a way that they were going to live once she got out.

It had always been he and Claire, ever since they were little. Their mom had given them up when they were very young, and his mother was more of a vague memory than anything else. They never knew who their father was. They were the only family that they had. It was weird to be living apart.

The dorm room looked out on the campus quad. Most people were going home for Thanksgiving. He'd been invited back to the house, and he'd go. It'd be awkward, going back to the place that had been his home for the past few years, but wasn't anymore. It wasn't that the family weren't nice people, but they had younger kids, more vulnerable kids, kids who needed them more than Carter did. He'd gotten a full scholarship and a part-time job. He was lucky. But it also meant that it was time for him to move on, make room for others. That he understood didn't make it feel less weird to be going back to celebrate a holiday with a family that wasn't his anymore, and wasn't really ever his to begin with. Claire would be there, though, and he'd go for her.

He actually had quite a lot to be thankful for, and was at the beginning of a whole new chapter in his life. Sure, it was a little scary, and felt a lot like tightrope walking without a safety net, but then, what was life without a little bit of adventure.

"Reid! Are you gonna sit there staring all day or are you gonna come help me haul this beer up to the roof?" his roommate said, giving his shoulder a shove. "You're still coming after your family thing, right?"

Carter startled at the sudden voice and the shove, and then laughed, "Yeah, yeah, I'm still coming. Just won't be there until around 9."

"Good. I've got someone I want you to meet." Dylan said enthusiastically.

Carter groaned a little, inwardly. "Oh, uh.. sure. Okay."

"Trust me!" Dylan grinned in a way that was not at all reassuring.

"Uh huh." Carter said, a little skeptically, and then he pulled himself up and started to head for the door. "Come on. Hold the elevator while I load it up."

Out behind Green Harbor Organics, doing a brisk business in illicit substances, Greg was feeling grateful for the onset of the holiday season. Holidays meant depressed and desperate junkies, arguably his favorite customers -- they could be gouged without the slightest twinge of guilt, and they would be biting like piranhas until the spring thaw finally brought an end to seasonal depression.

Pocketing a wad of bills after his most recent transaction, he takes advantage of a lull in the activity to light a cigarette and look around the back lot skate park. It's a place that usually cheers him up, but today it lacks a certain something. Despite the money pouring in and the outrageous pricing he can get away with on a day like this, the longer the day draws on, the worse his mood becomes. He sits down on the waiting bench, puffing his cigarette, and it hits him: sitting here slinging junk to the people with no families to celebrate with is keeping him from enjoying the holiday with his own damn family.

A low chuckle bubbles forth, startled loose by the thought: 'his own damn family'. What a weird, alien concept, maybe the weirdest part of a new life in Gray Harbor that includes telekinetic powers and Dreams. Not just Frankie, who he always has to pry himself away from, but Grant and Daisy and the others too. It is a family, and as he thinks about it he realizes it's pretty decent to have a family to miss. It makes him smile around the filter of the cigarette, and when a known face (a slimey trucker named Slice) pops out around the back door and awkwardly greets him in that special way of client to dealer, Greg eases up from the bench with a good-natured smirk and greets his customer with that special fake dealer-to-junkie cordiality.

Thankfulness, after all, can take many shapes.

Normally, she'd be at her parents' place right now, in Long Beach, California. She'd be sitting at the dining table, eating turkey and stuffing, cranberry sauce, green bean casserole, mashed potatoes and gravy, and ambrosia. She'd be drinking wine, laughing over stories with her siblings, with Andrew's new wife. Kelly would tell her about her current classes at Berkley. Their mother would be in the kitchen, making coffee to go with the pumpkin and pecan pies.

There would be talk of the Black Friday deals none of them were going to, because who needs that kind of stress after a big meal? There's be tentative plans made for Christmas. Dad would fall asleep in an armchair after pie. She'd help mom clean up before they all, sans sleeping Dad, played cards for M&Ms. Kelly would win. She always won.

Instead, Rebecca Carr sits at her kitchen island, eating Indian takeout. She's alone. There is wine, and she's had a few glasses instead of her usual one. Her boss will be out of town, so she isn't on call tomorrow. She can have a hangover, sleep in, do nothing. She's not used to doing nothing.

She gets a text from her brother, asking how she is, apologizing that their parents are being shitheads and blaming her for Kelly's death. She texts back her usual lie. It's fine. She's with friends, having a great time. She loves him. Hopes he and his wife can come visit over the Christmas holidays. The lie burns in her gut.

She misses Itzhak, but he's in New York with his family. He took Isolde with him. She doesn't want that to hurt, but it does. She's only human. But he wants her to meet them another time. It isn't devaluing her over his other girlfriend. Just taking turns is a thing that has to happen in this sort of open relationship. She's ok with that.

But nights like this are tough. Holidays are for family, and hers has been ripped apart by William Gohl. Fuck you, Billy.

She gets up and takes her wine to her computer desk and logs in to Overwatch. There's always people playing on the holidays, mostly the kids who are off school for it, but she can deal with their juvenile gamerbro doucheness tonight. It's better than being alone.

"Bebé! Mi niña!"

Arms enveloped Gina, and she returned the hug, closing her eyes briefly. As the hug went on - complete with a rocking gesture - she lightly patted Kalvin's back as a reminder to let go. Her voice was neutral, calm. "Hey dad."

Kalvin reluctantly pulled away, hands on Gina's shoulders as he looked down at his little girl. Purple hair, still, which surprised him-- did she plan not to change it anymore?-- black and silver-grey smokey eye, deep red lipstick, ripped black skinny jeans and a cropped short-sleeved black tee-shirt over a fishnet shirt. There were shadows under her eyes, but fewer in them, her face unmarred.

He grabbed her backpack, taking her hand as if she was still ten years old-- using the opportunity to check her arms. No bruises. No cuts. No odd marks. Nothing carved. Gina saw where his eyes went and distracted him by handing over the bag holding wine she brought along, "I didn't know the airport did BBQ. I was promised smoked turkey and a poolside nap, dad."

"Yes, yes, mi criatura, ya vamos." Kalvin laughed, and Gina saw his hazel eyes crinkle in satisfaction. "So how's the diner business doing? Remember, if you need any help I knew a coworker whose brother-in-law owns a restaurant..." The deep, mellow voice, reassured for the moment, dragged Gina to his new home.

o0o

She went swimming before and after dinner. The pool was warmed, and as promised there were floating inflatable lounge chairs to nap in. She wasn't crazy about swimming, but she always did when she came. The bathing suit meant the worried questions and speculations, the old memories in her dad's eyes wouldn't need to be asked. She told him stories of the diner, ignored his half-hearted chiding when she discussed the games and lies she used to amuse herself, helped him try recipe for a dulce de leche cheesecake he found online that ended mostly in them eating the dulce de leche with crushed cookie crumbs as they watched Garfield and Looney Tunes on the couch and talked about how weak modern kids were with their Pokemon and My Little Pony.

Resting her head on his shoulder as Jerry once again got the better of Tom, she came to her assessment. He was more relaxed, as expected: the weight of Gray Harbor was lifting. His sound had always been more of a skip, small and slight, just enough to brush against the truth. She knew it wasn't enough to keep the truth. It was fading even now, like the last bit of pepper in his mostly salt hair. He didn't ask her about her dolls, or the music boxes, except to ask if she wanted another for Christmas, earlier.

Her eyes were cold, her smile bittersweet, her hand warm when she reached to give his wrinkled, calloused hand a squeeze.

"Happy Thanksgiving, dad."

Abby steps outside for air and quiet. With a glance at the lone patio chair sitting outside (the crack is bigger than it was last year), she walks a little further and sits down on the steps to the porch, boots on the soggy mat soaking up the mud below. Two forkfuls of mashed potatoes sit in her stomach like a fistful of lead. This time, the meal had barely started before the fighting broke out. She filters out the yelling (she's good at that) and focuses on the creaking of the swing set in the wind, on the faint lonely noise of cable news leaking through the windows of the next trailer over.

She wasn't hungry, anyway. The turkey is always too dry, the potatos sickeningly sweet. It tastes like home and vomiting in Granny's wood-paneled bathroom. She can smell cigarette smoke on herself and a cloying note of damp and decay in the breeze. It's a good thing it's November. Whatever it is, it would stink to high heavens in the summertime.

Abby doesn't look up as the door behind her swings open and someone comes stomping down the steps, storming away across the park. What was it, this time? It's usually over Granny's "estate", but things start to blend together after a while, slights piled on slights, old festering wounds rinsed with pregaming beer. Who on God's green earth pregames Thanksgiving dinner, anyway?

She finds her fingers have moved to the hard lump of the key fob, but for a long while she just sits there, one hand awkwardly hanging off her breast pocket, waiting.

Abby stands. She tries to figure out who is yelling now, but the voices are jumbled, sharp broken-glass things she can't wrap her mind around for fear of cutting herself. She takes the fob out, squeezes it tight in her fist as she starts walking towards her car. That's something to be grateful for. She can leave. She'll work Christmas, this year. Next year, she'll work Thanksgiving, too.

(Grant - Downtown, Office of Williams, Martin, & Baxter.)

Late night Wednesday Chris Baxter sits pouring over the file in front of him at the Law Offices of Williams, Martin, and Baxter. Another child case comes across his desk, the drink in his glass is hitting the bottom again; coffee not whiskey. too many factors for another litigation before the holidays of another kid whose family is trying to pull them in two directions. It's too close to home for him. He sighs missing that simpler time. Being a Baxter and trying to grow up in this town is hard enough, but trying to have a respectable job means working twice as hard. Kind of like this kid.

Another family torn apart by drugs and crime. He wants to just make sure the kid is alright while strangers try to decide what's best. There's possibility though, it's just going to take a bit to protect this kid from the parent that just isn't- Eyes wince closed; his hands rub over his face and through his hair with a deep sigh. He needed to pull out some miracle gymnastics to try to get that kid into custody of the grandmother. He had to go through this with his own marriage and two kids. The fight's worth it, though it's so unbelievably tiring to his soul in that is keeping him awake at 11:30pm on a holiday.

There's a knock in the doorway and it's jarring enough the 49 year old attorney almost knocks his mug off his desk. In the doorway in baggy jeans and a couple layers of t-shirt and hoodie and a military coat is a 21 year old with violet hair spiked up holding a bag that smells like fried and a hamburger. "Grant? The hell you doing here?"

Grant Baxer, errant son and skateboarder at large offers a faint smile and says, "I tried calling. You weren't at home soooo I figured I'd see if you were here and the lights were on so... I grabbed some food and thought you might like....company?" He offers the bag out to his dad who is looking at him like sometimes his little dipshit just gets everything right. He's got problems but if there's anything Grant is thankful for it's his father that's always fought for him, especially when he's fucked up. "I figured it was important so... since it's a holiday ya know maybe you could use some help. Or...whatever. Maybe watch the parade tomorrow and hang out or... whatever. You should n't spend the holiday alone, dad."

Watching him Chris blinks, and the stress melts into a tired laugh taking the bag of burgers. "Sure, son. Pull up a chair. We are...going to help this kid." It pays off. All the nights up and forgetting to eat are worth moments like this for them, for other families., and for the kid he's trying to help tonight.

"Yeah you will." And propping his feet up and getting comfy Grant settles in to hang out with his dad and draw while his father saves someone's world.

Minerva wasn't really celebrating Thanksgiving. She was dealing with her mother and father being in a country they were comfortable with and she was most assuredly not feeling all that comfortable. At least not with them introducing 'nice Jewish guys' to her. She just wanted something steady. Not someone that was going to bounce around. And as far as arranged marriages went there wasn't any horrible news when Jewish parents arranged their kids to get married. So, maybe she should try it. And it wasn't like the men were couch surfers that were not going anywhere. One was even from Washington.

Or maybe she'd just put a few names on a dart board and see where the dart landed. Who knew?

Finch hasn't really celebrated Thanksgiving since she was 12. That's because when she was 13, her mother tried to kill her. Even before that, the rest of the family moved away because of the curse, trying to circumvent it with distance. This year is different. She and Gran have Iggy now. And Iggy does family in a big way. She has Itzhak and August, her family of choice. She has Iggy's brother and his boyfriend. And maybe even her father. Javier de la Vega has been invited to dinner at Mallard House.

Finch is carefully setting the table. She's known how to do this since she was a tot, carefully tutored in proper table manners and how to be a good host by Dove. Back then the family had money, they had servants, they had a good reputation and hosted parties. The house was beautiful then, before sanitarium bills drained them dry and the maintenance fell to the side. That doesn't bother her today.

She's smiling as she sets out each gold (ok painted plastic) charger at each place atop the linen cream-colored tablecloth with autumn leaves embroidered on it. On top of the chargers go layers of Gran's mismatched china, the pieces that have survived the years and the turmoil, a white dinner plate binding them into something cohesive. Cloth napkins are fanned out and bound in burlap with twine and a real leaf bearing each guest's name.

The center of the table has a runner, loaded with little white-painted pumpkins and squashes, darker acorns and leaves, and scattered among them a variety of candle glasses with candles ready to be lit for the meal. Gold tulle ribbon winds through it all, with fake branches with white berries dotting it here and there.

The buffet along the wall stands ready for the food to be placed on it for dishing out, and the smells from the kitchen are already amazing. It is simple, but it's theirs, and it feels like home. It feels like family.

Roxy has been invited to a Thanksgiving dinner at the Kelly house. Joseph, her dance partner, has been very kind to extend this invite, she gathers, because what little she knows about the American holiday is that it is usually about family. Dance family is family too! They have no such holiday in Finland so she had to do some reading up on the internet about it. She has purchased a pumpkin pie at the Safeway to bring as a token food gift. She has donned a pretty, casual (for her), peachy-orange vintage dress with short sleeves and scalloped edges, and a gold woven belt with matching headband and flats.

Her makeup is minimal, and she smooths her dress front down in the mirror hung on the back of the motel room closet, to gauge her appearance. It is satisfactory to the dancer, who adds simple pearl earrings and a matching necklace to finish things off. She looks like she stepped out of an old movie, the sweet girl next door. With a smile, she puts on her wool overcoat and grabs her clutch purse as the Uber she ordered honks outside. Time to go learn first hand about this American Holiday and, from what she's read, eat enough food to be put into a coma.

Eleanor is at Powell's bookstore with August. It's been a whirlwind Thanksgiving and even with a few rough spots it's overall been amazing. Meeting his family went far better than she could have hoped. The meeting with the Glimmer folk of Portland went all right, even if it couldn't exactly be termed cordial. And today she gets to explore a city block, four stories, of new and used books. It's like a wonderland for the researcher and she's naturally gravitated to sections on subjects relevant to her recent past.

She pulls several books on selkies, including anthologies of folk tales regarding them and other water spirits. She grabs a few on dryads as well, due to August's recent encounter. Then Ellie adds to her pile a few books about magical...well...books. Anything found about the world of Faerie she plucks up too, because it's the closest thing she can think of to the Veil, and maybe some of these stories are based on Veil experiences.

By the time she reaches the checkout counter, she has a cart with a decent sized pile of texts in it, and adds a couple of nice leather-bound journal notebooks to her score. She brought an empty suitcase on the trip, just for the purpose of bringing back treasures from Powell's. There's no sales tax on books in Oregon, and she's mostly grabbed used ones for an even deeper discount. This is her idea of a great Thanksgiving, and she hopes her boyfriend doesn't have heart failure when he sees her haul.

Ignacio founds himself in the unique situation ever man should have the problem of, "What the fuck do I do with two geese and one stove? It's like food porn gone very very wrong." He sighs and looks to his assistant in her wire cage, Miss Mags, twitching her nose at him. He arches an eyebrow looking over to her and that lopsided grin forms, "Yeah yeah I know, stop complaining." Still the oven is preheating and his veggies are in the bird and when the thing goes Ding! he'll put the first in to roast.

He waits for the oven to preheat and checks his phone that buzzes.

(Txt Ignacio) Marcela: Happy Turkey Day hermano. Raf there yet?
(Txt Marcela) Ingacio: Not yet. How's things with Tony's family?
(Txt Ignacio) Marcela: Really good. They can't wait for February. They're pretty great. So you're not coming back to NY huh?
(Txt Marcela) Ingacio: I was just there, chica. Tell Tony he's got to share me! ((SMS picture sent of the bird preparing to go in. Another of the table Finch is laying out))
(Txt Ignacio) Marcela: Que bonita! Ah that looks amazing. I know you don't want to hear it maybe but I think papi'd be proud of that.
(Txt Marcela) Ingacio: Gracias. Him being proud of me es no problemo.
(Txt Ignacio) Marcela: Yeah 🙁 You alright out there then?

He looks up and watches Finch finish setting the shiny plasticware out. He watches the hundred tiny details go into the table; the subtle efforts. He watches the smile rest on her face with no effort. Today? Today there are no problems. Today he can make her smile and they can give her family back. For this he is infinitely grateful. He snaps a pic of her when she's not looking and assessing what she's set up for everyone, her family. It gets sent to Marcela.

(Txt Marcela) Ingacio: yeah I'm exactly where I want to be.

The weather is gorgeous, a perfect crisp New York fall day with the high around fifty. Itzhak's a lot more relieved than he would have thought to get out of the Pacific Northwest rain for a few days. Hey, look, fall sunshine! Remember that? Good times.

He's sprawled on a park bench, Naomi snuggled up against his side. Itzhak has his peacoat unbuttoned so she can cram herself against him, the open flap of coat over her shoulder. She didn't used to be so demonstrative with him, but...he can't say he wants to complain.

Naomi is bundled into several layers, wearing a thick, soft hat and gloves with pockets for handwarmers. Scarf and heavy jacket and wool socks, she's dressed like it's January in the Catskills and not November in Manhattan. She doesn't have enough hair yet for any of it to be visible out of the hat. Even her eyebrows and eyelashes are mostly gone. ("You should never know how much your eyelashes do for you," she'd told him, gallows humor in the Yiddish fashion.) And still she's cold, and still she demanded he let her leech his body warmth.

Okay. Fine by him.

"You used to like the cold," he says, arm around her shoulders, while they watch Miriam run around like a marshmellow with legs in her parka.

"I know. I can't take it anymore." Naomi has the scarf pulled up over her nose and mouth, her voice a little muffled. "They tell me this is the new normal."

Itzhak tries not to wince, but it happens anyway.

Naomi socks him in the sternum. "Knock that shit off."

"Ow! Fuck. Okay, okay. Jesus."

"I can tell when you start feeling sorry for me, Itzil."

"Why on God's green earth should I feel sorry for my sister, who hits harder than an MMA champ? And I know whereof I speak on that one."

Naomi snorts, then giggles. "I bet you do, too."

"I do. I do! That's why my nose had to get set. Again."

"That nose is first in, last out." Naomi reaches up to tap said schnozz. She tugs her jacket and layers and scarf and hat closer, settles against his side again. "I like Isolde," she says. "She's sweet."

"Yeah, don't let that sweet surface fool you. She's a tiger underneath." Itzhak can't help boasting a little. He's proud of Isolde. Proud of himself, some, for having the sense to date her.

"I bet she is," Naomi murmurs, the smile Itzhak can't see past her scarf in her voice, in the way her eyes crinkle up just like his and Pop's.

Itzhak hmphs, grinning lopsided, glad his cheeks are already red from the cold. Then, what the hell. Good a time as any. "Got another girl to introduce you to."

Naomi twists her neck to peer up at him. "No shit?"

"I shit you not."

Naomi considers that, tucking her curled hands under her arms. "Any guys?"

Now Itzhak blushes out loud. The cold can't hide that! "Yeah, a guy."

Naomi barks a laugh, then mashes her face into his chest and giggles madly. "Gevalt, Itzil! You move to some dinky town on the West Coast and suddenly you have two girlfriends and a boyfriend?"

"Uh, well, he's not my boyfriend, exactly." Itzhak's hedging and he knows she can tell, not least because she laughs at him some more. "Don't tell Ma."

"Don't tell Ma which, about the other girlfriend or the boyfriend?" Naomi's teasing mercilessly, but relents. "I won't. Just. Don't be an asshole about it?"

Itzhak really does wince. "I, uh. I'm trying not to. Not to them. Not to you guys."

Naomi quiets, looking up at him. She's a dainty little thing, not a giraffe of a human being like him. Takes after their ma. Her brown eyes are huge in her too-thin face. "I believe you. Something about you changed out there."

Itzhak looks down at her, and then lifts his gaze up over the little park. Miriam bounds along in a pack of other overexcited kids, screeching and laughing. The trees are mostly bare. Leaves that haven't gotten with the decidious program still hang on in places, bursts of orange and red. Naked branches reach into a brilliant blue sky. Moms and dads and just people, Jewish and Latino and Black and white and the list goes on--a rainbow of people--chase their kids or toss around a ball or rest on benches to take a moment from the frenetic holiday season. It's New York. It's the Lower East Side. It's his home...or, it was.

"Yeah," he says. "Something did."

After the hellos and the "how are you" small-talk comes the inevitable.

George: So, how is it back in Gray Harbor?

Patrick: You know the answer to that.

George: Dismal? He laughs. Well, you can always leave again.

Patrick: You say that but...

George: Enh. She hasn't pestered me at all, and I didn't drop everything and run home.

Patrick: That's because she hasn't pestered you at all.

George: Are you going over there for dinner?

Patrick: No. She has her hands full with Thomas. It's remarkable. You'd almost think she actually cares about him. You? Kids with their moms?

George: Actually, I'm on my way to Katy's for dinner.

Patrick: Interesting lie.

George: Fuck off. Go put more flowers on graves. mumbling something about morbid

Patrick: No, no. I'm holding out for Christmas. A cemetery in November in Gray Harbor?

George: Bleak picture. So what're you gonna do? Nothing?

Patrick: Pretty much. God's honest truth?

George: a smothered laugh

Patrick: I prefer it this way. I'm tired of these made-up, bullshit holidays.

George: Oh good Lord. It's gonna be one of those phone calls. Lemme get a beer.

An hour later, they hung up. Patrick celebrated the holiday with a martini. With two olives and an onion. Because Thanksgiving is a day of feasting.

Somewhere in the Veil

Lucinda opens a door and steps through it, a clean diner plate tucked under her arm. When the door shuts, it thumps as a deadbolt slips closed behind her. She glances over her shoulder. "Hm." Across the room, there's the sound of a floor board creaking. Most of it's swallowed in shadow, moonlight slanting through the window barely enough to illuminate the oddly shaped foot of an occupant across the room. She squints, turns the plate in one hand, then frisbees it across with deadly accuracy. (Actually, it was a sort of spitball toss, but it lands, so woo!) There’s a HURK and some gagging.

“…”

“Larry?” Luce feels around for a light switch. “Oh, my apologies, man. I thought you were—“ She flips on the switch momentarily blinding herself and … NOT Larry.

A red and black clad medieval guard hurks out another cough and then straightens. He hisses out a breath and a deeply voiced, “Off with her head.”

“Not this again.” Luce scuttles over to pick up her only weapon, a slightly scratched diner plate (good craftsmanship! didn’t even break when it hit the floor), and clonks the man with it again.

The only exit is an open window.

She has no other choice. “Nice day for it.” The blonde takes a running start and leaps, curling into a protective posture. A stinging dart lodges deep into her thigh, poking a tiny hole in her favorite pair of skinny jeans. When she panic-exits the Veil, coming down hard in a muddy puddle in some poor sap’s front garden, the dart stays behind in the Veil. The venom injected into her system does not.

Luce tries to get to her feet, but stumbles and falls again. As she loses consciousness, diner plate still clutched in her hand, the last thing she sees is a fluffy black face peeking into her rapidly blurring line of sight, a pair of startlingly green feline eyes blinking down at her.

The Sidewalk Outside 13 Bayside

Noelle Duchannes sits on her Vespa with a bag of carry out dumplings for number 13. She reaches up to remove her helmet after parking her scooter, carefully tucking the chin strap onto the handle bar. There’s a sniff and she ruffles her hand through her hair, a long set of scratches still visible on her arm and across her throat. She squints as a woman appears out of nowhere on the lawn, between one careful glance at the porch and back. Wait, what?

“Uh…” Noelle sits there for a moment more, then takes a few steps closer, freezing when the woman makes it halfway to her feet and then drops again, prompting a furry black demon cat shape to break from the shadow of the porch steps. “Nope. Not today, Satan.” She ties the plastic bag’s handles in a knot, winds up with a couple of swings, and underhanded pitches the order at the porch, where it bounces off the door and thumps to the floor. Sure, the soup is probably toast, but there’s no way that ruined the dumplings or the noodles.

She’s getting back on her Vespa just as the cat, now happily curled on its warm body, glances her way and slow-blinks those emerald green eyes. “Don’t look at me. You’re an asshole.”

A fang-baring yawn is Hope’s only reply.

Noelle makes a mental note to return with metallic spray paint. That house has it coming. “I hate working on Thanksgiving.”

It was early that Thanksgiving morning that brought Yule out to the cemetery, his long gray coat left unbuttoned over the black dress shirt and khaki pants he had chosen to wear. He'd taken up a spot before the dual graves of the mother and father of the Duchannes family. The dates of their deaths were nearly two decades ago, though at different times, the father having passed a few years before the mother.

"Hey," His left hand was stuffed into his pockets to ward off the early morning chill of autumn from his fingers, his brown eyes fixated upon those headstones. "Know I haven't visited since I've been back. Nearly two months now. Knew you," A faint but somber smile flickered across his expression, looking specifically to his mothers grave, "wouldn't approve me coming back. Always wanted me to make my escape and stay out."

"But, you both also taught me the importance of family. Just knew I needed to be back, yeah? And they are doing well. Mostly. Ellis gave us a scare, but between you and I?" His voice drops to a touch of amusement, "think he was just hoping a certain attractive EMT would be the one to respond to the call. She wasn't, but she did visit. Bet it'll keep him happy for days. Thankfully? He's mended. Back on his feet to cause more trouble."

It's the flowers that are present he looks to briefly, no doubt placed there by one of his other siblings. "They want to go on a trip for Christmas this year. Someplace warm, can you believe it?" A soft snort of laughter comes from him, his head shaking back and fourth, "Don't worry though. I'll make sure the decorations go up. Even if I have to sneak a tree into their trailer while they are all sleeping. And,"

It's there he pauses for a few second, a deeper smile flickering to his features, "It's been good. Being back. Not just in seeing them, either. Discovering answers. And meeting a lot of good people here in town. Some old faces, some new. I'll come back by soon and tell you about a couple of them in particular. Just know we remember. We have a lot for which we are thankful. You'd have loved it." Stepping forward, the single white rose held in his right hand was placed down upon the gravestones, letting half rest on each side of those dual headstones before he turned, slipping quietly out of the cemetery.

"Oh, honey." Mom was greyer than the last time Reese saw her, but she wore it well, the pale streaks in her loose bun making her look laid back and quirky, even if that wasn't quite right. "Let me buy you a ticket. You can be here in the morning for your father's Black Friday brunch. Everyone'll be here--Oh!"

She could hear John before she could see him, asking who mom was talking to before just peeking over her shoulder to see for himself, smiling like all was right with the world, cheeks rosy like he's been drinking since noon. "Sis! Where's that pretty girl of yours?"

Mom made a chiding sound and whispered something unintelligible, surely bringing her brother up to speed on the dating situation while Reese swung her phone around to get her dog in frame, the grey-furred pitbull blinking up at the movement disinterestedly. "Yarrow's right here," she told him, answered with a, "Hey, sorry, sis," that sounded sincere, embarrassed. "Let's talk later, alright? You should come out. The kids would love to see you. Jackie and I would love to see you," but all Reese offered back as a less-than-honest, "I'll think about it."

When mom reclaimed control of the call, she gave Reese one of those looks, the sort that says she's going to let her daughter make her own mistakes even if she knows full well that they are indeed mistakes, and sighed. "You should come home, Teresa. We miss you. We love you. And heartache heals better at home. And with good food. Not that greasy diner--"

"Mom?" Reese interrupted, earning a pursed-lipped concession. "I like my diner. I like all the quiet out here. I like where I am, and I promise I'm healing just fine. I'll be home for Christmas, alright?" Maybe she didn't sell the doing okay part well, but the promise that she'd be there next month at least made the lie a little easier to bear. By the time the call was over, Reese was exhausted. And homesick. And maybe a little bit heartbroken. Her thumb ran over her contacts, hovering on Libby's number.

"C'mon, Yarrow." Shoving her phone in her pocket, mistake as-yet-unmade, she got to her feet and patted her leg. "Let's go for a walk."

"Is, your, um... friend... coming?" asked the woman who looked far, far older than she was. The question was aimed at Libby. Or maybe it was Elizabeth. Libby was struggling to keep track of what 'persona' she was supposed to be living at that moment. Supposed to be... A responsibility she put upon herself. One that didn't make sense. One that ended up being a burden. One that just didn't help anyone.

"She's-... No, mom. She's not coming. And she's-..." Libby just stopped herself, and rubbed her face. "Look, I texted her, and she said she had other plans. Besides, she's got the diner open today." Two lies in a row. Well done.

"Oh, so... are you going to go see her at the diner?" asked Mom, curiously. Mom was presently sat in a wheel chair, at the edge of the kitchen, while Libby was slowly prepping. It was going to be instant everything, plus a turkey-in-a-bag. Not a great meal. Not even a good meal. But Libby couldn't cook, and mom was having a bad day.

"No, mom. Look, she wanted space, ok? Shit's not great right now. So, I'm giving her some space. I'll see her when things... calm down," Libby answered. Her tone was tense.

"Did you two... break up?" asked mom, hesitantly. "I'm not sure how things work for... you people..."

Libby closed her eyes. Outwardly, she showed frustration, best she could. Not that it was hard to dwell on that emotion. How does one deal with an old bigot... when it's your own sick mother? Especially when she's at least making a small effort to try to understand? Inside, she was just trying to not break down into tears.

"We're just... giving each other some space, mom. Everything's fine. She's just missing home and her family is being difficult about it," Libby lied. More lies. So many lies. "Also, could you please not say 'you people'? It's really fucking insulting."

"Language, young lady! Can you imagine if your father heard you talking like that..."

And the conversation trailed off after that. Libby continued dinner prep... and paused for only a moment to grab her phone. To stare at it. To put it back down, then pick it back up, then put it back down, then turn away. No. She wasn't going to... And then she snatched it back up, tapped out a message, and hit Send before her self control could catch up.

(TXT to Reese) Libby: You going home? Need me to watch Yarrow?

Seattle, Washington - Sutton House

“Mum, they were out of darjeeling, but they had some assam, so I got that instead. Your teamergency has been solved.” Sutton walks through the kitchen, putting down a bag of teas from a local specialty shop. Noting the kettle already on, the sugar bowl open, she walks through the archway into the living room.

On the couch is sat her mum, long dark hair down and falling across her shoulders, a cup of tea in her hands. It smells like rich black tea. There are two cups, one milky and sweet, set out in front of the red leather high-backed chair that’s always been Sutton’s favorite. The one she used to fight her brother for every time they came over together.

“Mum?” Sutton kicks off her flats and wander over to perch on the edge of her favorite seat.

Her mother gestures to the tea, sips her own, waits for Sutton to pick up the cup and says, “When your lease is up, you’re welcome to come home. I know you’ve been thinking about making a move, and, frankly, your father could use the distraction.” She looks over, her green eyes intent.

“Mum. When I said I’m giving up my lease, I meant to move down the street in the same town. I have a job I — I have a job that’s passably interesting, I have friends.” She trails off.

“Just friends in all this time, love?”

“Among other things. What is it dad needs distracting from?”

“Chemo. You really should consider coming home. That town is a disaster. There’s a reason your father’s family left it for Seattle in eighteen —“

“Did you say chemo?” Sutton puts down her tea. “Chemo, Mum?”

“A little spot of chemo, darling, everything’s fine. It’s not the first time, and it won’t be the last.” Her mother sips her tea, ever the picture of calm and collected.

“What the fuck. Give me your keys.” Sutton holds out her hand.

“That’s hardly the way to go about —“

“Give me. Your keys.” Sutton steeples her fingers over her cup of tea, and rises, clearing up after herself even thusly annoyed.

“Love, I wish you’d reconsider.” A set of keys are fished out of her pocket and dropped into Sutton’s upturned palm. “I just had the brakes redone. Try not to get a ticket.”

Sutton doesn’t say anything to that, instead turning to head back through the kitchen. She drops off her tea after another sip, leaving it in the sink basin.

“I’ve packed you both lunches in the fridge, and the black thermos is more of your favorite tea, Harry. You’ll need it.”

Sutton pauses, turns around and fetches the thermos and insulated bag of packed food. Not that they’ll need it on base, but Mum’s cooking is Mum’s cooking. Out the door she goes, with about an 87% chance of catching at least one ticket before she makes it all the way down to base.

<div align="center">***</div>

Evie Sutton sips her tea and watches her daughter go, thinking about the fact that she didn’t even blink, this time, about being called Harry. Once the door closes, and the youngest Sutton is out of the house, she asks, "What have you been up to in that shifty little town, my darling girl?"

Lonely Highway - Inside a Cabin in the Woods

Love Covey Liven stands at the counter in a small kitchen inside a cabin in the woods. She pokes at the toaster a few times, taking a half-step back when a thin tendril of smoke curls up from the interior. “Babe, is it a bad sign if the toaster’s smoking?”

She calls over her shoulder, but doesn’t look away, just in case the machine’s feeling froggy. She takes another half step back at the smell of charring. That’s probably bad.

“Babe! When did you clean this thing last?”

She prods the toaster with a wooden spoon, and takes her eyes off of it just for a half second to check the text on the screen.

(TXT to Love) Unknown Number: I missed you.

(TXT to Unknown Number) Love: wrong # sweetpea

(TXT to Love) Unknown Number: You’re not safe.

“Okay, creeper. Block time.” Love frowns and blocks the number, looking up just in time to see a small lick of flame escape the toaster. She reaches past it, pulls the plug, and shoves the whole mess into the small sink. The smell that erupts when she douses it in water is… amazing. Acrid and horrible. Plus ruined toast. She fans it a couple of times, turns off the water, then dumps the whole mess into the trash can, like nobody’s gonna notice that.


“Hey, babe? Let’s go out for breakfast.”

REEDE FAMILY HOME
NOVEMBER 2007

The back deck of the house had a perfect view of the stars in this crystal-clear night, like diamonds scattered over the midnight canopy that stretched endlessly above her head. Isabella maintained an indolent sprawl over one of the rattan recliners present there, eyes tilted upwards and a hand resting on a full belly. Despite the pervasive chill, she was cozy enough in her sweater and pajama pants, lashes hanging heavy and well within reach of sleep.

She felt her brother approach well before his arrival registered in any of her physical senses; the sound of the door closing somewhere behind her head and his heavier footfalls making their way across the planks. At fifteen years of age, Isidore was already approaching close to six feet, blond hair framing his all-American good looks as he peered at her from the side of her seat. Amusement played over his shadowed expression.

"It's never gonna get old," he declared, bulling into the recliner next to her despite his lanky build, caught in that awkward age where his body had yet to fill out the extra space he was growing. "Watching you, Dad and Aunt Mary fight over the turkey legs every year. White meat is better for you, you know."

"It's utterly tasteless," Isabella groused stubbornly, grudgingly moving over to give her twin some room. "Whatever health benefits you do get eating it is neutralized by the amount of gravy and cranberry sauce you have to slather all over it to make it flavorful."

"No skin off my back." Isidore flashed her a grin. "More for me and Mom. We might need to institute straw drawing next year, though, the family table brawl's getting violent."

"Hey, you know the rules. We don't talk about Family Fight Club," she said, closing her eyes. "Besides, if we did that, the three of us'll just cheat, and when Reedes start cheating, nobody wins."

"It's true. Game night is carnage."

"Our very own Battle of Hastings."

"Operation Barbossa."

"The Reede enactment of the Brusilov Offensive."

"More like the Mongol sacking of Baghdad."

"Ohhh, good one." Isabella laughed. "Had to one up me by sheer numbers."

Isidore lifted his shoulders in a shrug, smirking faintly at his sister. "Byron Thorne might be your rival, Isabella Reede, but I've got the inside track. Kinda sad Dad didn't get to hear all of that, though. He'd be so proud."

"He would," Isabella allowed. "But he'd be even prouder if we started dueling like this with nautical battles."

"Calling shenanigans right now, since you definitely have the advantage there."

"You're right. It's no fun if I destroy you that easily."

Isidore laughed again, turning his head to meet her eyes, identical green-and-gold irises gleaming in the dark. "We should suggest that to the rest, it's not every day we've got them all under one roof. Just a question of which game would inspire our worst impulses."

Isabella tilted her head back, expression a contemplative one. "Monopoly?"

"If Mom's the banker, it's over for all of us. Blackjack?"

"No fucking way. You're a reader!" Isabella smacked him in the arm and the two lapsed into silence.

When Isidore finally turned back to his twin, he was grinning ear to ear, mischief teasing the line of his mouth. His brows lifted upwards in inquiry. "Jenga?"

Isabella's eyes widened. Jenga, with the family. A family whose members couldn't help but cheat recklessly and impulsively on game night. The possibilities cascaded through her head.

"YES!" She threw her arms around him, squeezing as she laughed, her lips on his cheek before vaulting off the recliner, already rocketing towards the door. "You're a genius!"

"I know." From anyone else, it would sound insufferably smug, but there was nothing from her twin's inflection but his quiet, certain confidence. It filled her effortlessly through the bond they shared, the intangible room they occupied within one another since their early childhood, where he lived inside her, and she lived inside him.

Stifling a yawn, Isidore unfolded his long body from the chair, and strolled back into the house after her.

Thanksgiving wasn't really a thing in Ireland. It never occurs to Shauna to celebrate it here in the states. Her brother Ryan and herself would probably do their usual. Microwave dinners in front of the television before Shauna went to the gym for more practice. It's about all she was doing lately. It was her way to make money.

Except for her new job. Working at the auto mechanics shop was something she'd always wanted to do since she came to the states. Jack was out today and he was her boss, so Shauna had the day off.
Having just left the gym she'd gotten into her brother's car and was just fastening her seatbelt when the hummer drove by. A familiar looking ride with Seattle plates. She freezes in place before her senses come to her and she slides down in the seat.

"Ryan! Oh my God that looked like Jax's Hummer! Oh Fuck!" It's not anger, it's fear, stark fear that the fighter felt at just the idea. "If he goes to the Police Station I'm so fucked. If he doesn't, I'm probably still fucked. Thank God my jeep is a gone now. That was a dead give away." She remains ducked down. "Just take me home would you? And back in the driveway, would you? Just in case we have to load the car with what we can."

Trying to convince herself she had options, she looks at Ryan. "Maybe he's just checking it out here and will move on." Hopefully. She wasn't ready to run again yet.

(Yay, got it right the second time. I keep doing this!)

42 Oak Avenue

Dr. Tillie E. Harlow hits ‘send’ on a mobile and slips her phone into her back pocket.

“Husband. The ungrateful wretches we love so much have cancelled for dinner this year. You get the passports. I’ll get the swimwear. 5 minutes.”

Dr. Nathan <Lost His Middle Name In A Carpentry Accident Which Certain Wives Should Really Stop Bringing Up> Bowman is picking out a loose piece of lettuce from between his teeth with a slightly ragged thumbnail when his phone vibrates across the surface of his workbench.

One hastily uttered "Ohshit!" later, he's checking the new message, reading it once. Blinking. Reading it twice. His head snaps up towards the doorway of the once-garage, now mostly workshop.

"Did that really require a text?" he yells to his wife, one room away.

Kailey sat in her van as the propane oven slowly did it's think and the Stove Top stuffing and packaged potatoes cooked on the stove top. The windows were open and the sea breeze was blowing inside. Her propane lantern was on and she was drawing an underwater sea-scape. Something she had been working on for a few weeks. While she was horrifically sick with that vile flu. The little camper was smelling good, she was mostly in her muse-groove, but something was missing. For a little while she assumed it was something in the illustration. Then she realized it wasn't. Setting aside the art she moved to stir things on the tiny stove. For the first time she was actually feeling really lonely. There was something about this town, the people in it, she wanted to spend time with them. Actually get to know people.

Only when the smell of burning reached her nose did she realize she'd drifted off. With a mild curse she pulled the potatoes and the stuffing and turned the flame off. Quickly she stirred them both, trying to prevent worse burning. "Stupid idiot..." She muttered to herself with a little sniff. The turkey timer dinger and she opened the tiny over and stuck the thermometer into the turkey breast cooking inside. The readout chiming done and so she pulled it out too. Everything sat on the little counter and stove steaming. Then she sat down hard on the bed only two steps away. She reaches down and opened one of the drawers under the bed. A red box is pulled from it and she stares at it a moment before opening. Insider a few momentos, some pictures, of her mother. "Happy Thanksgiving, mom," She said softly as she pulled a picture of the two of them at Disneyland when she was five. You would never know. Never know they'd been running her whole child by the smiles of delight before Cinderella's castle. "I burned the stuffing again..." And she set the box and the tiny picture out on the bed and began to make her plate.

Joey Lee Kelly wakes in the dead of night gasping for air. He can feel the sweat on the back of his shoulders and the chill of the drafty house on his skin. There's a body laying unmoving next to him. Weirdly one would think it a romantic moment with the only light from the autumn moon illuminating through the open curtains.

No, he's checking for a pulse and trying not to throw up.
Some people are adrenaline junkies; not him.
These dreams keep getting too real waking him in a state of panic and war.

Christ, it's like being in prison all over again, but instead of concrete and metal it's bone and flesh he's trapped in. He can still taste the rust off that yard he was standing in within the Dream. He hears his name and his hand rests on the sheets, "I'm just checking on something." He won't lie. Too many days integrity's all he's got. "Be right back."

His feet swing down and he wades across the room and down the hall. Quietly he takes the handle and wills the mechanisms open again just enough to poke his head into the room to find his cousin; once missing, now found. Relief hits him like a wave crashing on the beach. That journey done and now able to rest. Everything present and accounted for.

He heads to the bathroom and runs the tap. Cold water splashing against his face taking from him the fear and help ebb the fury from too close surreal encounters. He turns the water off and just leans o the sing for a moment taking a deep breath. Everyone's safe and accounted for. He can't deal with losing people again. Slowly the sick feeling in his stomach subsides. Tomorrow the house will be noisy with family and turkey again. Right now the house was quiet, but everyone is here. Everyone is safe. No one's missing.

Turning he wades back into his room and closes the door. "Everything's fine."
It's not a lie. For that he's grateful. He has no idea how long that'll last.
Back to sleep. Hopefully not to dream.

Lilith rolls Composure (7 4 3 3 3 2) vs Phone Alert (a NPC)'s 5 (8 8 5 5 3 2 1) Marginal Victory for Phone Alert

It’s the light of her phone on silent alert that gets her this time, around four in the morning. Lilith can’t stay asleep. She’s fallen out to doze a few times against Byron in bed with cozy comfort and exhaustion alike, but she keeps waking up because the images that are playing her subconscious and the backs of her eyelids are anxiety-inducing. The woman feels safe, sure, Byron’s right here, every time she rouses and turns or nudges into him, his arm makes an automatic protective curl about her no matter what state of sleep he’s in. He can hold her together, but he can’t stop what’s in her head and she doesn’t want to tell him about the tightness growing in her chest or the way she feels a little different, somehow.

It’s the night of their early Thanksgiving dinner. They conquered the challenge of dinner together, they even conquered the challenge of behavior and tolerance when it came to his mother. Both of them were happy and proud, regardless of a few conversation hiccups. Life isn’t perfect, people aren’t perfect, but the day still felt perfect enough. They did it together.

Their holiday pride and bliss was interrupted when the two of them stepped out onto the terrace with coffee and got shifted into a dangerous situation instead. They knew their due was coming, they’d been warned, but preparation for the moment these things happen, it’s never quite possible. Both of them survived, despite not expecting to come out of such a direct and powered confrontation alive, and they came out on their own two feet, besides.

It’s not over, though. It never is. But that’s not the only thing Lilith can feel in her chest right now. There’s some things going on she hasn’t said, there’s some things going on that she hasn’t been told, there’s some things going on that she hasn’t asked about. It’s been easy to push them in favor of being content with her lot, happier than she ever remembers being, but sometimes it catches up in the night to manifest with physical anxiety. She shouldn’t be surprised. Given two particular alerts on her phone and the day of two different trials still fresh on her as triggers, it’s a wonder she can sleep at all. But she always manages, eventually, when Byron is near, and sometimes she thinks about how uncanny that is.

When the phone light automatically dims off and the room is dark, she tries to sleep again. Her eyes won’t stay closed, though, they adjust in the murky lack of lighting to look at Byron asleep with a turn of her head. Lilith thinks about how he’s the most beautiful man she’s ever seen, and she knows it’s not just because he’s stunningly handsome.

He’d fight for her (he has).
He’d die for her (it’s been close).
He’d kill for her (with no regret).

All men are flawed, Byron is no exception. But for Lilith, he’s perfection and the fact that they’re lying here alive, together, holding each other’s past, present, and possible future with a flame that refuses to sputter, waver, or go out.. oh, it winds her right now. It scares her too, of course, because losing him now would mean losing a piece of herself given the way they’re so entwined. She suspects it’s much the same for him, and she feels sick thinking about what kind of guilt or malignant grief he’d go through if something happened to her. They live dangerous lives. It was not a perfect holiday… but she’s so thankful right now, maybe it was exactly as perfect as it needed to be.

Lilith rolls Stealth: Good Success (8 8 7 6 5 4 4 3 2)

Carefully and slowly and quietly slipping from bed, Lilith takes her phone from the bedside table and ghosts on bare feet through the bedroom to the hall, then into the penthouse living area so she can take a turn for unlocking and opening the terrace doors. Her brunette hair is tousled by wet, cold wind in the dark as she finds a corner chair on the balcony and curls up with a throw blanket she grabbed on the way to cover her bare legs and arms. Huddled there, she clears the bank alerts she got, one earlier in the evening when she was changing for the doctor (Overdraft Alert) and the one that is showing more recent (Deposit Alert).

After swallowing thickly and sitting in silence, she turns on her camera and flash and makes Byron a video to note the day and certain sentiments. Lilith tells him why her holiday was perfect in that Lilith way of hers. She doesn’t send it to him when it’s finished, she saves it and exports it as an attachment, named for him to find in the event something happens to her. When she finds a lawyer to make a will, she’ll leave the video with them, too.

He knows she loves him just as obsessively as he loves her. She wants to leave him a reminder of that, just in case.

They live dangerous lives. Lilith suspects she knows what feels different inside her. She feels it as tumult and excess noise and she knows the danger it presents in so many ways. Maybe no one will notice this place, trial after trial, it’s turning her into something she’s not sure she can control. How much power is too too much?

And what the hell is she going to do about the $250,000 deposited into her account this morning? She deletes the texts that accompany that notice, and the ones from the day before. When she goes back to bed, she buries her face in Byron’s chest and lets his heartbeat and heat warm her and drown out every fear inside. She’s so thankful.

Cassidy tosses the half-eaten microwave dinner (turkey with mashed potato) on the coffee table and reaches for the remote control.

“Lex? I thought you’d have this one figured out by now. And uh, guys, I don’t think that’s a Turkey.” A tall blonde woman stepped into the room, dressed in slacks and a jacket. She was one of the few of her ‘group’ to actually hold down a job. It was impressive that those present had managed to get themselves fried chicken at all. Was that in driving distance? God, she hoped not. “Out by Christmas, or I’m calling your officer.”
“I don’t do holidays, ‘kay, bitch? And you wouldn’t fucking dare.” Is the silver-haired teenager’s smiling response, without much friendliness behind the comment. Or expression, for that matter.. She has draped herself across one of ‘bitch’s couches, with half of a dozen similarly unnaturally colored individuals seated, draped, or simply laying on the carpet. One of the dangers of being the only drug addict in your ‘circle’ who had actually gotten clean. Or rather, she thought tiredly, looking across the living room, the choice to keep said circle.
Lex was an… addition. Most of them had grown up in Seattle, and Lex some seventeen-year-old from some small ass town. She didn’t get it, but people had this weird thing about her. She was scrawny as hell, as it’s not like she had any obvious appeal. But appeal didn’t matter, when fear was a factor, and the friend that ‘suggested’ she get a roommate for an extra room she didn’t have, it… didn’t sound like it was a suggestion. It was just a matter of figuring out the danger, and who had been stupid enough to fall for letting it get this close. Maybe then she could keep the entitled little brat out of her living room.
“Remember whose couch you’re on, ‘kay, bitch?” she sighed back at the teenager, rolling her eyes as she took a carton of eggnog from the fridge. She couldn’t wait for the apprenticeship at the tattoo Parlor started. Besides, how many cheesy crime mysteries could Netflix really have?

Happy Fucking Thanksgiving, Seattle.

THORNE FAMILY HOUSE
November 27, 2019

The heavy rain was tapping against the windshield of his still rented Benz. Byron was parked far along Oak Street, his positioning still gave him a good view of his old family home and the sidewalk leading up to it. He had just spent lunch serving Thanksgiving meals to the needy before dropping Lilith back at her place to pick up a few things to bring over. He'd told her that there was an errand that needed running, when in truth, that errand just had him sitting in his car and waiting for the inevitable.

When Olivia Marchand brought up the fact that she invited his mother over to spend Thanksgiving with them (and that he should come too), Byron objected and told her that he and his mother had plans. They already had their Thanksgiving together and spent the whole day working together for a charitable cause. Why would she come back here when he'd specifically told her there was no need?

Out of habit, he lifts an arm to check the time on his expensive Cartier, when the time can also clearly be seen on the dashboard. He'd wait here for another ten minutes, then he'd leave. It doesn't even take a full minute after he'd checked, when he notices a cab pulling up right in front of the old house. An umbrella immediately pops open to protect against the rain for the short trip from car to house.

The muscles in Byron's arm twitch, there's this urge to get out of the car and confront her about this... unauthorized visit, in his mind. He should start the engine up right now and drive over there to pull her into his car before allowing his mother to step foot into that house. It was a conspiracy and he knew it. In fact, he does start the car, but rather to make a move to confront Mary, he drives pass the old house without stopping. Instead, he texts a message to Lilith: 'On my way, babe.'

His mother had made her choice.

---

The door to the house swings open, a feminine figure cloaked in shadow stands in the doorway while the hallway behind her is lit up with light. "Mary, I'm so glad that you could make it." The voice calls out, her eyes shifting, head turning to look after the Mercdes Benz that drives on by. "Byron could't make it this evening?"

Behind her is another figure, a shadowy contrast to the light. Other silhouettes can be found at several of the windows, either staring out at the street or passing like a ghost through the room.

"I told you that he wouldn't come." Mary says in slight exasperation, making her way up the porch stairs before the umbrella is lowered, then closed. "Please let me see it, what you've done to the place." Once inside, her own figure a mere silhouette against the bright light within, "It's beautiful." She then blinks and smiles at what looks to be a familiar face coming down the stairwell. "Just like old times."

"Yes... Yes, that ought to be fine," Anne Vydal was informing her telephone as she walked out onto the balcony. "Mmhmm. All right, sweetheart, we'll see you tomorrow, then. ... 'til then." She hung up, giving the phone a slightly perplexed look.

"Which one was that?" James inquired from behind his newspaper. Old-fashioned, yes, but it just felt better than reading it on a screen. And less glare, too.

"Vyvyan."

"Mm. Going to be late?" Bit unusual, and to his wife the lift of a brow was nearly audible.

Anne shook her head as she settled into the other chair. "No. Asking to bring someone along."

The smirk somehow actually was audible: "Asking to, mm?"

She laughed softly. "All right. Informing us he intends to."

"Mm." A rustle as James turned the page, scanning another article. "Bit last minute." Also unusual. "Has he ever brought someone along?" No. He considered this a moment. "So what's his name, then?"

The faint confusion she'd aimed at the phone reappeared in her voice. "Hyacinth."

"Hyacinth? Seems excessively classical. Even for Vyv."

Another breath of a laugh, as Anne picked up her mug. "Rather would be, yes. But this is apparently a female Hyacinth."

A twitch of fingers and the top half of the newspaper folded downward, enough for James to regard her over top of it, the brow arch entirely visible this time. "Oh?"

"Mm." She sipped the tea.

"...hmm." His fingers twitched again, straightening the paper so he could read once more.

The call from dispatch came in at eleven minutes to midnight.

He'd volunteered to work the Thanksgiving shift, and had given the Chief no rationale for it. Don't you want to be home with your family? Don't you have something you gotta be thankful for? But, Someone's got to hold the beat, sir.

So there he was, filing some paperwork for an injunction against Joshua fucking Foster, and fighting the migraine gathering in intensity behind his eyes as he downed his second cup of coffee in an hour, when the call came in. 10-50, possible 10-57, multiple unit MVA, require EMS and patrol unit.

Seven minutes later, he pulled up to the intersection and saw it. Scattered remnants of what had been a white SUV, wheel base pointing up and roof pointing down and fuel spreading quickly as its horn blared. Black Mercedes, front end gone, sobbing driver on the side of the road being consoled by a man who looked like he might be homeless. More pieces of cars than actual cars, ripped off and still tangled with electrical cable, strewn across the road like intestines. He climbed out as the firefighters were arriving with a scream of sirens, and as the truck slowed, one of the men swung down with a tank of fire retardant, and they sprung into action like worker ants; each with a job, a blur of sound and motion.

His job was to organise people. Secure the area, call in for a blockade of the road, show the paramedics where to go, direct traffic and can't get a pulse, I've got a code 99, begin chest compressions, and someone's whimpering in the back of the SUV. EMS is focused on the driver trapped in the front, and they don't notice. So he gets to his knees and hollers for a firefighter, and tries to wedge himself inside enough so he can see. And, 28, 29, 30.. no pulse, time of death is oh hundred twenty-two, and the horn is still blaring until one of the firefighters cuts the line.

And in the back of the SUV, a child still strapped into his car seat, bloodied but very, very alive. Don't you have something you've gotta be thankful for?

Hailey sat in the lounge, staring at the television. It was showing cooking shows. Hailey didn't know how to cook - had never known how to cook, she reminded herself importantly. It was a thing she had never known how to do, not a thing she had once grasped and had since lost. So the cooking shows were completely useless to her, but she liked to watch them anyway. Everything always came out so perfect-looking on those shows.

Her phone buzzed, and she glanced reflexively at it. The first thing she realized was the time. Technically, at 1:13 AM, it wasn't Thanksgiving at all any more. It was Black Friday. Which necessarily led her into thoughts of all the Christmas shopping she wasn't going to have to do this year. Just like she hadn't had to do it last year.

Or the year before?

She couldn't put her finger on how those Thanksgivings and the Christmases that followed had been spent. She knew she was at the Facility, but all she had was a hazy recollection that smelled of Pine Sol and powdered mashed potatoes. That could have been representative of any number of Thanksgivings in her past, so she wasn't willing to confirm that it was one of those Thanksgivings. For sure, they hadn't exchanged gifts at that place.

Or had they?

Shaking her head, Hailey forced the haziness away by not thinking about it anymore. The harder she tried to bring those memories into focus, the blurrier they became. It was just easier to let them go. To stop arguing with that place's will to be forgotten and let it happen. Maybe then - maybe if she just let that happen - it would stop taking chunks out of the rest of her memories. That seemed like a fair trade: she would give it what it wanted, and it would let her keep what she wanted.

She stared at the phone until the message resolved itself into something she could read, actual words. It made her smile a little bit, whatever the silly message had been, and she tucked her phone back into her pocket. The television was telling her how to build a foil tent to cover a turkey. It was fascinating. She sat there until a nurse poked her head in, 'cause apparently she was at work!

Tacoma, Washington

Mark’s comfortable in the cab, engine running, the small cardboard box of takeout fried chicken slowly saturating the right thigh of his jeans in grease. His fingertips fared no better with the fried skin, and they’re licked clean in-between bouts of new mouthfuls and the occasional mutter about how nobody is ever fuckin’ on time no more.

That would be why, twenty minutes later, he’s caught by surprise when the three black sedans pull out of Berry Plastics yard, turning right on East 15th and heading straight for where he’d parked up. Sure, he’d not have enough speed built up to really wreck Dimmy’s little convoy, but he’s stolen the garbage truck before the guys had the time to empty it out. They’d overloaded it, too. Always did in Tacoma. 30 tons would be enough.

Probably.

13 Bayside

Hope had long since fled.

While that statement is usually a figurative one in this home, tonight it was all too literal. Carver, alas, had been abandoned by his cat soon after he'd drunkenly ordered himself Thai food. Some could say it would be to perch in a little spot under the awning of the roof where the angle of a smaller extension to the building in the past left this perfect little hiding spot for a cat that all-to-often blends in with shadow to watch the front garden and the sidewalk a little ways past it. Some would say it's because Carver made his way through most of the wine he'd been 'liberating' from the hiding places an occasional room-mate had stashed them and nobody needs to be near that.

The correct folks would say it was because Hope has a debt to settle with one of the town's delivery drivers.

When the thump from a bag of hastily thrown food hits his front door, he's got his hands resting on his thighs, letting out a circular headbang that'd look far better if he had A) Any flexibility in his lower back whatsoever, and B) About a foot more hair. It interrupts his impromptu karaoke, too. "Steal me, deal me, anyway you- Th'FUCK?"

He notes the blonde on his front lawn first, Hope curling up on her lower back and watching him with an expression he'd swear was that of 'I'm not helping but I look forward to seeing you trying to drag her in.'

He notes the soup seeping across his porch second. With any luck, the noodles survived.

"...Again. Really?"

During the day's festivities at the Kelly House, Nicole slipped outside when no one was looking to sit on the front porch. She needed a moment of...

Quiet.

Holidays have a way of making a person think about, well, their entire lives. Thanksgiving was always kind of a strange holiday for her. Growing up, her parents were either working, fighting,, or playing dead, it seemed. Mom might make a turkey, or try to, and they'd have potatoes from a box and stove top to go with the can of green beans. Half the time Thanksgiving dinner was just some sad looking frozen meal because Mom just couldn't stand to be on her feet one minute longer. When they weren't fighting, Dad would just sit in his chair and smoke, cigarette after cigarette after cigarette, hunched over and...

Quiet.

That was how it was in their house. Like the scales of justice, one side won out over the other. Which one weighed heavier depended on the moment. FIGHTINGSCREAMINGYELLINGVIOLENCE or...

Quiet.

And she? She was quiet too, trained to be afraid to talk, afraid to draw attention to herself. She didn't want to be the nuisance, the thing that ruined their lives, the 'accident.' Thanksgiving was slightly different though. She was allowed to watch the parade on the tv while eating her cheerios. Then she'd spend time in her room drawing hand turkeys or making collages with fallen leaves. If there was the attempt at a meal, she would sit at the table with her mom and dad, and they would eat in silence. She once made the mistake of asking them what they were thankful for. Once. Things were easier when they were...

Quiet.

Even her years after leaving Gray Harbor were spent barely even realizing Holidays like Thanksgiving went by. She was too busy, or in the middle of traveling. She might stop at a diner for a hot turkey sandwich and get sad looks from the waitress who just couldn't wait to get home to her family while Nicole sat in the booth alone. And Arizona was a whole other issue, far too reminiscent of her childhood, really. Then she moved back to Gray Harbor and locked herself away in her tiny trailer all alone, hiding where it was...

Quiet.

But now? Now it is all changed. She's not hiding. She's living, truly living. She's embracing life and what it has been offering her. She fixed up that tiny trailer, got a job, BOUGHT that job, and now the salon is doing really well. She has friends and hardly ever does she feel like hiding anymore. She goes out -everywhere-. Anywhere. As long as it is fun. And then there's this guy she really enjoys spending time with, A lot of time. And he has this whole family. It might not be a Rockwell, but it is definitely a family. And they invited her to spend this day with them. She can hear them all inside, the Kellys and their friends, talking and laughing, filling their house with moments to be thankful for; people to be thankful for, a real thanksgiving meal to be thankful for. And amidst all of that, she had to slip out to the porch for just a few moments to sit and listen to what was inside; listen to what was INSIDE.

And smile in the quiet.

Online recipes for deep-fried turkeys don't always mention the little tidbit that they definitely need to be thoroughly thawed first.

Aidan pressed his forearms against the ground, lifting his head and shoulders to get a better look at the gout of flame shooting up out of the pot. From here, it looked like it was probably reaching higher than the top of the carport. Was the turkey even still in there after that explosion, or was it soaring somewhere over the trailer park like a stuntman from a cannon?

Okay, so, trying this not in his trailer: good choice.

He lay there several moments, watching the fire and feeling its radiating warmth. Mesmerizing. Without really thinking about it, he felt his mind reach out, making the flames dance along the oil he couldn't see. It made a smile spread slowly, until he could hear worried neighbours noticing the blaze.

With a sigh, he rolled up to his feet and grabbed the trashcan lid, taking a breath and then darting in to drop it over the pot.

Oh well. There's lunchmeat in the fridge. Some of that is turkey, right?

Hyacinth stared at her things. Three outfits. Three moods. One dinner.

Any other house where a woman of refined taste is asked to dinner by the most bespoke man in town to spend a holiday with his family to meet them might be an intimate affair.

This is war.

Hyacinth didn't grow up with a standard upbringing. She was taught she needed to be better, more, lead from the front, don't show weakness. To most that would mean don't show a kindness, but she found, over time, this is not always so. The people at the top of the food chain more often than not are sharks. The truth is she hated it. She always hated the division in difference. Judging others like Margaret does.

Taking a deep breath she lets her fingers fall across the fabric analyzing for context... inference... playing out the entire judgmental drama in her head now and planning a strategy. This isn't dinner, it's a silent social warfare. She might not be able to do much about her own situation, but, she knows how to play the game damn well and Vyv? Vyvyan needed a reprieve.

It's what one does for their best friend. You make an impact so terrific that his grandmother will choke on her cranberry sauce and her preconceived notions deciding for him if he's succeeding or failing before he tries. HA! Take that woman. There's anew sheriff in town. The smile rests on her face deciding on option number three. Her heart filled with that warm fuzzy feeling of knowing she was getting to match style and wits with the HBIC in charge of the Vydal family and getting to go ply her social trade for a good cause. Not nice, but sometimes the mean one needs, and she was grateful for being able to fight for someone who appreciated it.

She was grateful to not think about the gaping holes in her family for a little while longer because there is no way she is going to be able to do that in four weeks. Ugh.

For now? On with the combat quality eyeliner while her Echo sings along with Kesha,
Stop ta-ta-talkin' that 'Blah blah blah'
"Okay, Grandma-ma. Hold onto your gibblets because yoooooou are about to about face preeetty damn fast."
The smile widens. yeah. This was going to go well.
And if not there's still gin.

Rhys unlocked the trailer door with the key that'd been on his keyring the second longest, and stepped in, looking around. "Ma?"

"Back here, cariad."

He glanced ceilingward, cheeks puffing out with a near-silent sigh. Bad Day, then. Right. He made his way back to the bigger of the two bedrooms, pushing the half-open door entirely open. An exhausted-looking Gwyneth was resting on the bed, the television on the dresser playing some home renovation show, and she gave him a sheepish look.

That was the worst. That look like she was doing something wrong. Like she should do better. He sat on the edge of the bed, glancing at the television. "Man. All this rebuilding and not a single murder dungeon. No one ever thinks ahead."

It made her laugh despite herself, head dipping as she scolded, "Rhys!" Her chin lifted, and she gave him the sternest look she could muster. "We do not encourage homicidal architecture in this house, boyo."

Rhys grinned. That was better. "Okay, then next time you come to mine instead."

"Boats don't have basements."

"Neither do trailers! Anyway, I've got a bilge."

"Murder bilge?"

"Not yet."

"I should hope not."

"Not enough room." His grin was back, cheekier, and she lifted a hand to swat his arm. It was like being nudged by a kitten, and he carefully didn't let the grin falter like it wanted to. "C'mon, Mamgu and Tadcu'll be wondering if we decided to run off to Tahiti instead," he said as he started to stand again. "What do you need me to do?"

Gwyneth's smile faded again, going small and wry. "All right. Give me a hand, please."

He didn't clap. That joke only worked the days she didn't need it. Instead he took both hands, helping her sit up as she twisted to get her legs over the side of the bed. She extracted a hand to grab her cane, then stood, using it and his other hand about equally. He waited for her to steady and let him go before he stepped away. There was enough of a wobble to keep him from going far, but she waved him toward the door. "There's pie and cream in the fridge."

Rhys gave her an incredulous look. "You made a pie. Ma, there'll be pie. You can't stop Mamgu making pie."

"I felt better yesterday! ...and I'd said I would."

Felt better yesterday. "Ma..." Rhys started, then stopped, watching her face. He knew that defiant edge. He'd seen it in the mirror. A sigh, and a small nod. "Yeah, okay."

He kept half an eye on her as subtly as he could as he headed for the kitchen and she started carefully toward the door. She knew he was anyway; he knew she knew. They both pretended otherwise. "'course the danger is I might eat it before we get to the car," he said once he had it and was moving to catch her up by the door.

"You do and I'll thrash you with this cane, there has to be some benefit to the thing." Gwyneth paused with a hand on the wall, balanced between it and the cane, and studied her son for a few seconds, the mock-stern look softening. "I'm thankful you're back, this year."

Rhys gave her a small, wry smile of his own, far closer to hers than he realized. "Yeah," he said, adjusting his burden to free a hand for the doorknob, "...me too."

Lonely Highway - Inside a Cabin in the Woods

Vik Kovacs quickly makes his way down the stairs from the first floor, chin tucked up against his chest as he does up the final few fastenings on a simple button-down shirt. The phone-call to his family had been a pain in the ass, taken far longer than he wanted to, and totally meant that he was going to miss out on getting first dibs on breaking the seal of a new jar of marmalade.

"Sorry, did you call m-"

His eyes go from focusing on his fingers to the scene in front of him. Smoke, tendrils and thin but nonetheless wafting through his kitchen, wisps of grey drifting towards the couch in the living area and brushing past his face. The woman, standing there, hand on her hip, head turned over her shoulder to look towards the stairwell, catching his eyes. The smell. The acrid smell. Burning electronics, melted plastic.

He looks to the trash can.

He looks to the woman.

He looks back to the trash can.

"Did you just melt a toaster?" eventually comes out after a few repeats of his mouth wordlessly opening and closing, the sentence filled with amazement.

"Hoooooly shit, holy shit, holy shiiiit..."

"LANGUAGE, ANDREW!"

"Sorry, Ma!"

As the turkey slowly lowered into the pot of violently boiling oil Andy stepped back away from it, just a little more terrified of it than he'd ever been of anyone with a gun aimed his direction. But he'd followed Alton Brown's directions to the damn letter, so if this wasn't a fantastic and totally safe turkey he'd be pretty disappointed as the firefighters told him it was a total loss and he tried to see how comfortable his car would be for the night.

This was going to be a good Thanksgiving, he thought to himself. He hadn't done a Thanksgiving without coming home to see his mother his whole life. Not once. When Manjula's family offered to treat them to a vacation in Mumbai? No! When he had stomach flu from eating bad Greek pizza in Packard's Corner while attending BU? No! He hadn't missed a one.

And it struck him that this might be his last. That next year she might not be there to make her godawful cranberry dressing or fantastic mashed potatoes, whose secret ingredient he'd recently discovered turned out to be a lot of sour cream and a packet of ranch dressing, or the very weird Thanksgiving decorations she put on a bush out in the front yard and insisted was a Thanksgiving bush because when he was a kid he believed white people were capable of any weird tradition. Was it really any stranger than pumpkin spice?

She'd been better lately. Thank god for good doctors, a good health plan and Caoimhe O'Brien, whose company his mother had come to like more than most people she knew and whose herbal remedies had kept her sane while the chemo did the hard work. And now she was back home, if not necessarily out of the woods. No longer on death's door, but somewhere on the sidewalk in front of death's post-war bungalow.

And so he'd invited Clarissa. Why not? She was... this was... well, it was confusing and a little strange, but he wanted them to meet. It felt important. He couldn't figure out why he couldn't stay away from her, but if it's what the whole universe seemed to want, why fight it? And why not introduce her to his mom? She'd be glad to hear that he was out and dating again. And she deserved to be happy.

"Andy, when will the turkey be ready? I've got the stuffing done. Extra cranberries this year!"

"Oh good." She knew he hated cranberries. Cruel woman.

God, he was going to miss her.

Last Thanksgiving, her father had tried to cook. Elise had come down from Seattle and her father had banned both her and her mother from the kitchen until the oven started to smoke and chaos erupted. Her mother rarely yelled at her father, but that year? She'd chased him around the kitchen, smacking him with the end of a wet rag, complaining in Thai. They ended up eating leftover noodles on the living room floor with all the windows open. At least there'd been pie.

A month later, her father had his stroke. Not even a year after that, and both her parents were interred at the Gray Harbor cemetery. Elise hadn't been able to stomach going up to the motel when the clerk called in sick - she'd made Graham go up and man the reception desk. It was going to be a slow morning, and he just had to wait for the afternoon clerk- besides, she had to cook, they couldn't have Thanksgiving without a turkey, what did he expect? A half day of honest work wasn't going to kill him irrepairably change him.

But she hadn't even put the turkey in the oven. It sat in the sink, the water still running over, and she sat on the table with Sunday's paper spread out. Her father was the one that had gotten her the newspaper subscription, it'd been a "gift" when she moved back home, insisting that she needed to always be informed. The front page headline was marked with teardrops now; she should've left it in the trash where Graham had put it.

It was hard not to think about all the Thanksgivings she'd taken for granted, and all the ones she'd never have with them again. She thought back to her mother chasing her father around with that wet rag, and how Elise had just rolled her eyes, but her father had caught her mother by the wrist and danced her and that rag around the smokey kitchen. They'd laughed so hard. They had loved each other so much. Elise had walked away from the kitchen that night rolling her eyes, while secretly wondering if she'd ever find a love like her parents had found.

In the present, her phone buzzes beside her. She wipes her eyes and blinks down to the text. When's my food, woman?!! It made her roll her eyes. It made her want to chase him around the kitchen with a wet rag. It made her laugh, the sound a little choked, but the laughter there all the same. stfu before I beat you she writes back, takes a second, and then adds: get your ass home. I love you, G Then she picks herself up, throws the newspaper away, and gets to putting the turkey in the oven.

There'd never be another Thanksgiving with her parents. But she wanted a hundred more Thanksgivings with Graham. So with that, there were still so many things to be thankful for.

Ding! goes the microwave oven and Maddie now has her very own turkey leg. Her hair's done in two braids like Wednesday Addams, and she's wearing a feather headband - is it really cultural misappropriation if you get the culture all wrong? Her lips are smeared with grease by the time she perches on the chair beside Duncan, chewing happily on the (only slightly rubbery) turkey that he got from all the way in Hoaquim. "It's really good!" she enthuses, adjusting her tablet so that they can watch the screen better. There's a certain giddiness to her; they were almost at the best part of the movie, and besides. There was just something special about being here with Duncan (and Pilgrim Jimmy) on Thanksgiving day.

"You wanna go try to free a turkey later? We could maybe catch it and keep it as our pet! I bet Jimmy would like a friend," she muses, taking another big bite out of the leg as she thinks this through. "We should probably just make sure we eat all this before we bring it home, right?" She peers at her turkey leg, peers at Duncan, and then shrugs. There was more to this thought, but - "Oh, this is the best part!!" With a squeal, she sits down the remnants of her turkey leg, and launches into song.

"EAT ME! Hey it's Thanksgiving day..."

This was the best day ever. But then again, any day with Duncan was the best day for Maddie.

Anne pours herself another glass of wine as she waits for the person on the other end of the phone to answer. This was her third attempt, and God dammit, it would be her last. She didn't even know why she keeps trying. The dogs scamper to their beds, having finished a bowl of ground turkey and rice - Anne was at least not drinking her dinner despite what the mostly empty bottle of Pinot Grigo might say about tonight. There was leftover Chinese food sitting out, too. Who needs turkey, anyway?

The phone rings into voicemail. Anne breathes out a sigh, pinches the bridge of her nose, and then reaches to knock back a third of the glass she's just poured. "You have reached the voice mailbox of.." the robot on the other end speaks out. She should just hang up now. Instead, she leans into the counter and waits for the beep.

"Mom, it's me. Anne. I'm just calling to tell you and Tommy happy Thanksgiving. I'll.." she wavers, contemplates what to say next. "... try again at Christmas." Then she drops the phone and ends the call. For a brief second, she contemplates reaching out to someone else but that was a lost cause, too. Instead, she finishes her glass of wine, picks out a new bottle from the fridge, and tromps up the stairs.

Tonight, she's grateful for a fully stocked wine fridge and a big bathtub to lose herself in for awhile.

It wasn't all that bad, spending Thanksgiving by one's self. It means more leftovers all for yourself. It means that you can watch whatever you want on TV! And .. okay, it wasn't actually that great, but Harvey was tolerating the day. It was just a day, a day like any other, and it was 1:00 a.m. so that means it technically wasn't even Thanksgiving anymore, anyway.

He sits on his sofa in his underwear eating a leftover turkey-and-mashed-potato sandwich. He wasn't much of a cook, but this came out pretty fucking swell. It would've been better to share it with somebody, but Noah was out doing only God knows what and Hailey ...

Harvey looks over to his phone and frowns to himself. Giving somebody space meant not checking in with them, it meant giving them the time they needed to process. But it was holiday. Can 'space' take a break on a holiday?

It's at 1:13 in the morning that he sends the text: Today I'm thankful that this didn't happen: https://media1.giphy.com/media/p6T196plNgQRG/giphy.gif .. Happy Thanksgiving.

Then he sets the phone away and pretends he doesn't care if he gets a response.

It was the quiet before the storm. Elias would go over to his aunt's house for Thanksgiving briefly -- just long enough to make an appearance and be loaded down with food to take home. Weber House was nearly empty. Only Daniel was staying there with him now, and even he spent most of his time at his girlfriend's place over near the school in Hoquiam. Which meant that everything was very quiet and still as he sat alone in the living room drinking a cup of coffee and occasionally exchanging a few text messages. Tomorrow would be Black Friday and he'd be at the shop early to deal with the Christmas Shopping rush. Fortunately, in a small town, that rush would be less of a pain than in a larger city. There was that to be thankful for. Glancing down as his phone buzzed again, with a promise of company, sustenance, and coffee during the rush. He couldn't help but smile. That, too, was something to be thankful for.

Tobin Gilford was going to Thanksgiving with his boyfriend. It would be the first Thanksgiving that he'd ever attended with a signficant other, and with that significant other's family -- well, the family that was in town, at least. Nevermind that the family in question was his part-time employee, and practically already considered him a brother-in-law. He was still nervous, and despite that, he was kind of excited.

Thanksgiving and holidays in general were hard, usually. He was an only child with a father who had disappeared and a mother who had... more literally disappeared, and no extended family of which he was aware. It was a weird time when everyone was spending it with family and he didn't even have the excuse of work to distract him -- the boat tours being shut down until the weather warmed up again. The cold rainy winters were the lean times, where all the profits from the warmer months would have to carry him through until the season re-opened. Most years, things were just fine. Some years, when there were a lot of repairs, or too much bad weather, too many canceled tours, or not enough private events -- it was hard.

This year, things had gone okay. This year, the Masquerade had given him an extra boost that he hadn't been planning on at the beginning of the year. This year, he'd finally gotten the first true sign that his mother was still out there, somewhere, alive. He could still sense her. He didn't know where she was, but he knew she was out there. And this year he had Rafael, who had brought some much needed laughter into his life. This year, Tobin Gilford had quite a few things to be thankful for.

When Justin had agreed to this Friendsgiving thing, he had vastly underestimated the amount of work that actually went into preparing all that food. He was thankful that they'd agreed on a pot luck, and that he had decided to have the Turkey professionally cooked, because as he stood in his kitchen with more groceries than he knew what to do with, a stack of recipe cards, and a lot of household appliances that he only used once every blue moon -- he realized that he was very much out of his depth.

Caleb sat on the floor and lolled his tongue, prepared to catch anything that didn't manage to make it into a pot, pan, or safely in or out of the oven. The pup had gotten big over the past couple of months, and while he was still growing into his giant feet, he was becoming quite the little bruiser.

Uncertain where to even begin, Justin stared at everything, and then picked a card at random. Pie. Sure. He could start with making the pies. One pumpkin, one apple. It was then that his phone rang. His parents. He'd decided not to go back to L.A. for the holiday, but instead to stay in Grey Harbor and have his first holiday at the new place with friends instead. "Hey, mom," he said into the phone as he began to separate out the ingredients for the two pies and begin strategically planning which bowls to use for what, which pie pan to use for which pie. "How are you guys doing?"

"We're great, honey. Just wanted to check in on you and see how you were doing. We're going out on Steve's boat tomorrow, so we probably won't have signal. Wanted to wish you a Happy Thanksgiving before we head out," his mother said cheerfully.

"I'm good. Cooking," Justin grinned, knowing full well what reaction that would get.

"Oh, honey, do you not like your friends?" his mother teased.

"Ha ha, mom. Thank you for the vote of confidence," Justin smirked with a shake of his head.

"Only love, baby. Give Dahlia a hug for me, will you? Tell her I'm thrilled you guys are going to do the film. I can't wait to spend some time in Seattle again," his mother said in a rush.

"I'll tell her, mom. You and dad have fun. Call me when you get back and we'll figure out what's going on for Christmas," Justin said. A couple of quick goodbyes, and then he was faced once again with the challenge before him. "Alright, Caleb. Operation Don't Poison Your Friends on Friendsgiving is a go."

Genevieve wasn't really expecting to have such a happy Thanksgiving. Sure, it would have been fun with just her and Eli, but now there was the bonus of having her parents join them. Calm, relaxing and lots of food. The perfect prequel to the insanity of the next week. Maybe this needs to be a yearly thing.

She can be trusted to make sure to take out food when the oven timer goes off, and that's about it.

There are ingredients scattered all over the counter, things in the oven, things that need to go in the oven. She's lost. Am I thankful for this mess? She asks herself.

The oven timer dings and she gingerly pulls out a pie, shoving another one in. People will be arriving soon, best to get dressed and put a smile on her face. "Dyls! When does this bird go in the oven?" She calls out as she walks toward the back room. Any minute now people are going to descend and want fed.

This is going to be interesting.

Nothing will make you fasten up a suit jacket and start walking at double the pace than three security guards diverting off of their usual route to follow you.

Martel knew he looked obvious, but there was nothing to be done about it. Gray Harbor had been a bust so far, what with the casino nowhere near ready, but Seattle? Seattle was ripe for the picking. Thanksgiving was always worth a visit to the poker tables, too. You get the down and the lonely, those who'd rather be anywhere else than with family, but with just enough of a lingering thought in the back of their minds to throw them off their game. That, combined with the fact his luck was obviously in (Even if it took a few nudges here and there), saw him leaving through the front doors of Goldie's Shoreline Casino right as the senior-most looking security staff began to call out in his direction.

You could tell he was the senior. Unlike the other two, he had a full head of hair and was hired for something other than sheer intimidation. Which meant he was a thinker.

And he was a thinker. He was thinking "You've got to be fucking kidding me." as Martel forced him to break into a sprint.

"Soooooo..." Zelie plopped down on Sparrow's bed and gave her big sister a very expectant look. The girls were in pajamas and maybe just a teensy bit tipsy after a long day with friends and family and a whole lot of food. A little more wine wouldn't hurt, passed from elder to younger in a red solo cup as she countered with a shorter, "So?" of her own. "Tell me what you're really thankful for," the younger Jones crooned, knowing full well that some things had been left out at the table that afternoon. Sparrow eyed her sister as she leaned back against the pillows and, with a nod assuring she'd dish, urged, "You first."

Zelie played coy as she told Sparrow about a boy she didn't want to mention in front of their parents, lest introductions need to be made between the football player she liked kissing and the parents liable to hand out crystal pendants and yoga tips. Sparrow dropped the L-word about two boys of her own and shared a picture of herself with the mystery man everyone made such a fuss about on game night.

"Are... you in love with both of them?" Zelie had asked, sounding faintly scandalised. "How will you choose, Mena?"

"Not gonna," Sparrow answered after nodding confirmation of the breadth of her affection. "I'mma get 'em both together one day with that very nice bottle of scotch and just..." Eyes wide, her shoulders went up in a high shrug. "Talk." Much as she seemed uncertain about the process, her dopey little smile implied some optimism about the end result. "Anyway. What's his name again? This jock of yours. Is he a senior too?"

The night descended into all the expected gossip, doing one another's make-up and sorta half-watching their favorite movies, the ones they'd already seeing dozens of times. It was perfect. Plenty to be thankful for.

"DAISY LYNNE ROWE," came the screech from inside the house as Daisy came flying out the front door and vaulted over the railing to take off across the lawn. She ran from the house as fast as she could, down the sidewalk, down the street. She kept on going until she reached the corner, and then turned and kept running. Then, it was up and over the fence, across the Dolans' back yard, over the small creek and through the trees toward the old shed that would serve as a bit of shelter. She came up against it and pressed her back to the old and rotting wood, breathing fast, heart pounding. After several long minutes, she peered around the corner. There was no one in sight. She closed her eyes and tilted her head back against the shed, counting down to slow her breathing, slow her heartbeat.

Then she pulled out her phone and sent off a quick text: Thanksgiving not going as planned. Will be at the greenhouse.

When she was certain that no one was following her, she pulled away from the shed and continued across the back of several more properties, few people outside. Most were indoors having dinner, watching parades, football, that sort of thing. If anyone noticed her slipping between the houses and through fences, no one came out to yell at her or stop her. Eventually, she made it out of the neighborhood and just walked the rest of the way to the dispensary. Family. Sometimes it just wasn't worth the hassle.

Eli hasn't had a real Thanksgiving in years. The holidays become less of a thing when you don't have family and friends are generally optional. But, it feels pretty good to have the small apartment filled with warmth this year - it wasn't exactly the plan that Eve's parents would be there to join them for their first Thanksgiving, but circumstance had them both in the room and it was going to be a day of far too much food and a lot of laughter. He could likely get used to this.