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googling what to do when you get your hand stuck in a turkey?”
    “Yes,” Tom said, distracted. “Nothing. The Internet has let me down.”
    “I called because I thought you’d have experience with this! I can’t be the first person this has happened to.”
    “Probably not, but most people wouldn’t think to call the Talk Turkey hotline in that situation,” Tom said. “Okay, listen. You’re really stuck? And I’m assuming there’s no roommate, significant other, family member, or neighbor who can help?”
    Carson shuffled to the side a bit and let his head rest against the bottom cabinet with a thunk . “There’s no one. No roommate, no boyfriend, my family’s across the country, and do you really think this is how I want to introduce myself to my neighbors? I don’t even have a cat,” he said glumly.
    Tom let out a startled laugh. “I don’t think a cat would really be able to help you.”
    “I know, but I was just illustrating my aloneness.” Carson closed his eyes and leaned harder against the cabinets. His shoulder was starting to ache from the awkward position. “I was going to get a cat, you know. To have someone other than you to talk to after the hotline closes for the season. How pathetic is that?”
    “About as pathetic as me giving you my phone number in the hopes you might want to go out some time?”
    Carson’s eyes shot open. “Are you serious?”
    “You sounded fun, and you’d just moved and didn’t know anyone, and I thought maybe you’d be interested. But every time you called it was about turkey, so I took the hint.”
    “There was no hint! No hints were given! I started making up reasons to call you just so I could hear your voice and get to hang out on the phone with you for a few minutes.”
    Tom’s warm chuckle made Carson shiver. “Is this one of those times or do you actually have a turkey on your hand?”
    “I actually have a turkey on my hand, unfortunately.”
    “But the time you called with the ethical dilemma about whether or not buying a turkey at the supermarket contributed to ‘the alarming trend of antibiotic-laden meat leading to superbugs,’ that was made up, right?”
    “No, that was real. It’s a thing, and I know you just said it was fine because you’re being paid by big agro business, but that’s okay. I’ll ask you again after turkey season.” Because he could now that he knew this was Tom’s real number. They could keep talking by phone for as long as Tom would have him. Carson flexed his hand. His wrist was starting to go numb. “So my hand, though. What should I do?”
    Tom hummed. “Sit tight. I’ll be there in like twenty.”
    “How? You’re in Minnesota.”
    Carson heard the sound of a zipper being raised. “Actually, I’m in Ravenswood.”
    He didn’t have a perfect grasp of Chicago geography yet, but Carson was positive that wasn’t too far away from his place in Lincoln Square. “But your area code is Minnesota.”
    “Because I spent my first two years of college there before I transferred to Northwestern and I never changed it after I moved. I didn’t have a cell phone in California, so I had to get one when I got to school.”
    Carson wasn’t sure what was going to explode first, his racing heart or his racing brain. Tom lived in Chicago. Tom had given him his number in the hopes that they’d talk more and go out, in Chicago . Tom had apparently been raised by the Amish or something, because who the hell waits until college to get a cell phone? It was almost too much to digest, so he stuck to the practicalities.
    “The L is shut down, and the plows can’t keep up, so the streets are impassable. You won’t be able to get through.”
    “By car, yes,” Tom said, his voice echoing strangely. He paused for a second, and then started talking again, slightly out of breath. “Sorry, stairs. But I have cross-country skis.” He stopped again, and Carson heard him take a deep breath. “God damn , it’s cold out here.