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I don’t know why he’s suddenly so close to me after avoiding me for almost two weeks.

All I know is that Lazarus and I don’t quite fit in at the library party—and that’s saying something. There are people of every shape and size, in a whole host of colors, from sea blue to dark green to charcoal—and then there are the humans. And the guy with a wolf’s head. A minotaur. A ghost.

And they are all hobnobbing and bebopping, and Lazarus and I? We hang back. We take way too many cookies from his plate, pile them onto smaller green plates with little Santas on them, and then slide like shadows into the part of the library that is unoccupied.

Well, that looks unoccupied, at first glance.

Muffled moaning tells us that the mistletoe kicked in hard over in sci-fi.

“Let’s get out of here,” he grumbles.

“I don’t want to be rude. And I’m dying to hear about the baby. Rhea said she was supposed to call the social worker this morning for an update with Hannah.” That’s the birth mother’s name, and I feel like I know her.

I feel like keeping this baby alive is my second chance, and I can do nothing about it, literally, but I tell myself that by learning Rhea’s job so she can give 100% of her focus and love to keeping the baby alive and healthy once it’s in her care is something. I tell myself that my Emily would have wanted me to do this—to help give life, not add more deaths.

“I have an ultrasound picture on my phone, and I can give you all the dirt, but first you gotta carry us some eggnog upstairs and away from these people. I just heard Ian Fenclan say that they’re about to start singing The Twelve Days of Christmas.”

I take our plastic cups and follow him up the dark stairs, past the velvet cordon across the bottom that clearly prohibits us from going further.

“Rule breaker,” I tease. “But spill the details.”

“Let me find a spot to stash the loot,” he chuckles and puts a plate of cookies on a display case near books about Hanukkah and Kwanzaa.

That reminds me. “I got Rhea and Manny something for Christmas. And Hanukkah. I heard they celebrate both?”

“They do. They celebrate all the High Holy Days. Manny was adopted by a Jewish family when he came to New York in the late 1800s as an adult son.”

“Like you,” I point out.

Lazarus skims right over that, like he’s unworthy of the same happy ending. “They loved him and taught him all about machinery and repairs. But he’s quick to point out that he’s from a collection of parts. He could be many cultures in one. So could I. We get to celebrate it all—says Manny. Or nothing.”

“Who says that?” As if I didn’t know.

“I do,” Lazarus confirms, and I roll my eyes.

“Well, I got them a bunch of bibs, booties, and mittens. The newborn kind of mittens, so babies don’t scratch up their little faces. I feel like it’s risky to give them that, but I... I don’t know what’s wrong with me. This is the first time since I lost her that I could go into a mall or shop and see baby things and not feel like I was dying inside. Or feel nothing. I just felt hopeful, excited for them. Please, please tell me they got good news?”

“They did. Look.” Lazarus shows me his phone. “Twenty-six weeks old. It’s a girl.”

“It’s a girl,” I whisper.

“And she’s almost two pounds now. I don’t know how they tell that, but that’s what they said. They’re gonna do a procedure called a cervical stitch, which sounds horrible and nasty, but they’re trying hard to push for 30 weeks. They did the stitch thing once, and it failed, but they were able to do something else that stopped preterm labor that time. They’re going to try something new, but they gotta do it really soon, or she’ll like... fall out.”

I clutch the nearest thing I can for support.

It’s him.

And he holds me up, holds me tight, before slowly putting me down on a bay window seat. He sits with me so that I’m almost on his lap. “Falls out?” I whimper.

“Hey, hey. That’s not going to happen. It’s just that in addition to whatever else Hannah is experiencing, she’s got something where her cervix gets weaker the bigger the baby gets. And twenty-six weeks is so much better than twenty-two. Like, in terms of what people can do to help. I think the whole town is working charms and saying prayers...” he trails off, suddenly realizing that he’s patting my back and ensconcing me in his arms.

“You, too?” I ask, eyebrows up.

He grunts.

“I’ve been praying for them, too. I know my soul must be absolutely filthy, but it’s still in there. All fractured and stuff.”

He looks at me suddenly, head jerking hard so that we’re suddenly nose to nose. “Me, too. Figure maybe... Maybe when they jump-started whatever I’m made of, some of it came back? Like someone who had been out and they were able to resuscitate them? I didn’t think that before, but...” He looks away. “Something changed.”