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at Terminal City.
    During Max's tenure at Jam Pony, Normal had been a pain in the ass, with a stick up his own. The biggest thrill of his life had been receiving a signed picture of President Bush (one of 'em—Max didn't know which, not that it mattered) back in his community college days when he'd been president of the campus Young Republican club.
    Max gestured to the struggling pine. “You let
Normal
take care of this tree?”
    Original Cindy's smile returned. “Thas a fact.”
    “Our Normal? Straight-arrow, top-buttoned, stone-cold Normal?”
    “I'm tellin' you, Boo, ever since he midwifed little Eve, he's one soulful white boy. Hell, he even watered the tree.”
    “Please tell me that didn't involve a zipper.” Shaking her head, Max looked back at the tall plump tree, which still appeared to be struggling against the cables. “That must have taken up damn near alla Jam Pony!”
    “Purt near . . . hey, but we roll with it, right?”
    “I can't believe Normal went along with this.”
    “You wanna really lose your mind?” O.C. looked around conspiratorially. “It was Normal's
brainstorm
.”
    “Normal's idea.”
    “Gettin' you guys this tree, swear on my mama, Boo.”
    “Well, where is he, then?”
    “Hey! Cut the man some slack, my sistah—gotta at least let 'im
pretend
he's still an asshole.”
    Max was gazing at the tree; feelings of warmth were stirring in her, out on this frigid rooftop. “Well, God bless Normal . . . 'cause this is beautiful.”
    Taking a hand out from behind her back, Original Cindy offered Max a black metal cube with a silver toggle switch. “Dix and Luke—their latest black box . . . Honor's yours, Boo.”
    Lump in her throat, Max took the box, and glanced at her two egghead, eggheaded friends, who both nodded vigorously; then she flipped the switch. Colored lights came on all over the tree, red and white and green and blue, twinkling, sparkling, shimmering, the star at the top shining bright white, colored balls bobbling, a glowing vision in the twilight.
    “It's beautiful,” Max said again, her voice hushed.
    She turned to the man at her side; Logan smiled at her. The rest of the group gathered round, each taking a turn hugging Max. Even Alec—who rarely touched anyone, other than the occasional one-night-stand female he deigned with his passing presence—gave in.
    All but Logan.
    He stayed a step or two back—as usual, she and he were aware of the required distance between them.
    “This is gonna be a dope spot for watchin' the comet, Christmas Eve,” Original Cindy pointed out.
    The whole country was awaiting the arrival of the so-called Christmas star, the once-every-two-thousand-years passing of a comet that some astronomers thought might also have been the fabled star of Bethlehem.
    Max smirked. “According to Sketchy's rag, the comet signals the end of the world.”
    “According to Sketchy's rag,” Original Cindy said, “Elvis is coming back New Year's, on a flyin' saucer.”
    The group gathered closer to the edge of the rooftop, getting a good look at the glowing, colorful tree. Max studied every light, every colored ball. The tree was magnificent. She had always considered Christmas a corny relic of pre-Pulse decadence. But now she understood what the fuss was about . . . family, friends . . . and she could think of no better present than this. The tree would be visible for miles around, and people far away from Terminal City would still be able to see the Freaks' Christmas tree on top of their new mall.
    They had indeed come a long way in a short time.
    She was still contemplating this when, moments later, the wind expressed its own, less sentimental opinion, grabbing the tree and shaking it even more violently than it had up till now, like an abusive parent manhandling a naughty child.
    Logan reflexively reached for the tree, to haul it back, but the wind shifted again, this time coming across and sweeping the tree back upright and to the left, the branches