"It's only six o'clock!"

"Some people drink early," I shrugged.

"No, I'm not drunk," he said. "I was just thinking about it. I was watching this dog, the one that lives in the department store? There's this itchy bit right here...well, here on a dog," he said, indicating a spot just below his ribcage on his right side. "There was just no way for him to reach it – front paws don't bend that way and his back legs weren't quite long enough. It just made me think, you know..." He held up his hand. "These spindly little breakable things on the ends of our arms can reach, grasp – scratch any place on our bodies, really – hold tools..."

"So can monkey's hands."

"Don't you think it's a little bit great? I just..." he shrugged. "I think about bodies, what they mean, what they do."

I looked down at his hands.

"Marvels of engineering," he said quietly. "A single part of the body which can reach nearly any other part. Pencils, doorknobs, pianos...mugs with handles – mugs without handles, for that matter," he said. He picked up his cup of coffee, left hand gripping the handle, right wrapped around the cup itself. "We invented them all because of hands. If cats were the dominant species on the planet, what do you suppose they'd invent?"

"Machines you can operate with your tail, I suppose," I said. "A little limiting, Lucas."

"No doubt," he answered, then changed the subject. "New Year's is coming soon. I suppose the village does something? Some kind of..."

"Pot-luck dinner," I said.

"Another one?"

"You knew you moved to a small town, Lucas," I said with a grin. "It's not fireworks and a rock concert, but it's nice. They hold it here, at the cafe. There'll be dancing. Tons of food. More than Thanksgiving, even."

"Idyllic," he said. "The whole village is a little like a postcard, you know. Sometimes I wonder if it's going to turn out to be some kind of horror novel after all, but I can't quite see it."

I smiled. "We have our problems, but I don't think there's anything that macabre. Unless you count the Straw Bear."

"Maybe the Straw Bear didn't used to be symbolic."

"Maybe not. Then again, most places have something in their past that's best left there," I said. It never occurred to me that it wasn't the false violence of the straw bear he meant, but rather the transformation. "It's all an eternal puzzle, Lucas. But you will come to New Year's?"

"Oh, I think so. It sounds like fun," he said. "Do I have to bring something?"

"Well, no one has to. I don't think anyone would care if you didn't. We all know how far away you live. Are you going back today?"

"Yes – just screwing up my courage," he said. "I'll see you on New Year's if I'm not back sooner."

"Quite a walk back to your place," I said. "Can't someone drive you down to the end of the asphalt?"

"It's out of the way for nearly everyone. I don't mind."

"You will, halfway there with nowhere to put your bags down. Let me close the shop and I'll come with you," I said.

Lucas glanced at me, then nodded nervously, setting out some money for the meal. "You don't have to come help, you know."

"It's been a while since I strapped on my snowshoes," I said with a grin. "Business is slow. I'll make sure your heating is still working..."

"I know how to re-light a pilot now," Lucas replied, but his grin was as wide as mine. "Come on then, but I won't tip you."

I was rummaging through the storage room, where I was sure I'd stashed my snowshoes sometime last winter – and where a wrapped package for Lucas happened to be – when the door slammed and I put my head out. Lucas was loitering near the home-improvement section again; my guest was the boy, who leaned on my counter and waved at me.

"Hiya," I said. "Looking for something?"

"Saw you come in," he said. "I thought I'd say hi."

"Well, hi," I replied, pressing the package into his hands and pointing at the bags by the door. "Haven't seen you around since school let out. How'd exams go?"

"Tell him about your History test," Lucas called. The boy quietly snuck the package into the bag.

"I was really fast, I was third done in History," he said, beaming hugely at me. "And I got done first in Art."

"You had a final exam in art?" I asked, rummaging under the counter.

"Had to write an essay about our favorite piece of art," the boy said.

"What'd you choose?" I asked, looking up.

"That one," the boy pointed over my shoulder at a poster on my back wall. It had come from Chicago with me, years before: a reprint of an old propaganda piece from the forties, extolling the virtues of riding the elevated train. "Lucas says it's early modernist graphic design repopularized by ironic nostalgia."

"Did you say that in your paper?" I gave him a startled look. He shook his head.