Madsen Morrow was eight years old the first time she met Santa Claus. She’d come downstairs to investigate a noise (sofa legs scratching on the floor as if shoved) that seemed to have come from the living room. It was empty when she got there; stockings hung, tree sparkling, fire burning low. “Well, that’s strange,” she thought and said out loud. This is was what characters on television did when they were by themselves. Madsen was very fond of television and watched it as often as possible. She was about to head back upstairs and into bed when she heard a new sound; a humming sound, coming from down the hall. “Ah-ha,” she said (this also from television). It was the toilet fan humming. Someone was inside if the light from the crack beneath the door could be trusted. “Who’s there?” she demanded. The light and fan went off at once. “It’s too late for that. You’d have done better not to turn everything off. Then maybe I’d have figured that dad or someone had forgotten.” She sighed.
River woke to the sound of the boys in the trees. She woke slowly, her eyes closed. Gray to pink, backlit by the sun. She’d slept long. “What time is it?” Nothing. “Rain?” The creak of the door. The smell of soap and fresh, wet skin. River kept her eyes closed. “Rain?” “You’re still in bed? Get up already. You’ll be late for school.” “They’re early.” “They’re always early. Eager beavers.” “Huh?” “You’ve never heard that before. 'Eager beaver.' 'Eager as a beaver' or whatever.” “Beavers are eager?” “I don’t know, River. It’s just a saying.” “But beavers aren’t eager.” “Yeah, but it rhymes.” “No it doesn’t.” “Don’t start. You know what I mean. Anyway, they’re always early. Every year.” “I never noticed.” “Yeah, well I did. And they are.” “I guess it never mattered before.” “Not to you, I suppose, no.” A pause. “So. You excited?” “Uhm. Something. I’m something.” “Does that mean that you’re going to get out of bed?” A pause. “I th