Page 139 of The Gaybor War

And somehow, that feels like the best compliment I’ve ever gotten.

By noon the following day, Benji’s front yard looks like Christmas collided with a Pride parade and lost the will to self-regulate.

The flamingos are back. Naturally.

This time, Benji has harnessed them to a miniature sleigh, Santa perched precariously in the back, one glittering arm raised as if he’s mid–dramatic farewell. Tinsel reins connect the whole absurd caravan, and at least one flamingo is wearing a tiny jingle bell collar that I’m fairly certain came from the adult toy store on Main.

"Tell me that the flamingos are temporary."

Benji steps back to admire his work. "They’re seasonal."

"That is not comforting. How many seasons are we talking about?"

"They’re my signature piece, Carter."

When he was satisfied with the debacle in his yard, he decorated the tree in mine. Not with lights. Not with tasteful ornaments. Not with anything purchased from a store with standards.

No.

My carefully pruned maple is now draped in strings of cranberries, popcorn garlands, dangling dried apple slices, seed bells, and what appear to be handcrafted pinecone feeders tied on with twine.

"What did you do?" I whisper.

"Eco-friendly ornamentation," Benji says proudly. "It’s a gift to nature."

"It’s a buffet."

"Same thing."

I rub a hand over my face. "You cannot turn my yard into a wildlife supper club."

"You said no inflatables."

"I did not say ‘summon the entire forest.’"

As if on cue, a sparrow swoops down and lands on one of the branches. Then another. And another. Within minutes, the tree is vibrating with feathers and frantic holiday enthusiasm.

"Oh," Benji breathes. "They’re coming in hot."

"They’re not supposed to come at all."

A squirrel launches itself from the fence, lands on the tree, and immediately begins aggressively dismantling a popcorn strand.

Benji claps softly. "Look at his little hands."

"This is not a Disney movie," I snap. "This is a zoning violation."

But he’s already drifting toward my driveway, eyes lighting up. "Uh, Carter?"

My stomach drops, and I turn slowly.

My SUV—my once meticulously maintained, hand-washed, sacred chariot of order—sits not ten feet from the tree. Now it looks as if it’s been personally targeted by a vengeful flock.

The hood is speckled. The windshield is abstract. The roof is… biblical.

I stare in shock.

Benji squints. "Huh."