In the bleak midwinter, a train winds its way through a valley. Snow lies thick upon the ground, almost glowing with light from the frozen moon above. The passengers aboard the train are a varied lot: this one in an expensive-looking suit talks on his phone, but not too loudly; these two newlyweds, ever so slightly besotted, giggle as they stagger through the compartments in the hopes of finding a couple spare sprigs of mistletoe, one for his bunk and one for his; these four, a flesh-and-blood recreation of the so-called nuclear family, already exchanging gifts, the youngest rattling his in anticipation; and these two refugees from a city in flames, far away and long ago but never forgotten, even here.
Against all common sense and Elizabeth's better judgment, Booker still wears his tattered vest and striped trousers, although in a single concession to his daughter, he's donned a large woolen sweater (an early gift which he knew better than to refuse). It fits surprisingly well despite the haste with which it was picked out, and in a surprising turn of events to fathers everywhere, it's comfortable too. More than once during the train ride thus far and the extended flying scene in a slightly surreal animated film simply called 'The Snowman', which had been on display in the dining room and which Elizabeth had found enchanting but he considered somewhat confusing and abstract, he'd had to struggle not to yawn. It never hurts to be too careful.
Descendants of the relative handful of people who'd managed to escape Comstock's second Ark are everywhere, and they still keep the faith. Unlike their ancestors, they rely more on subtlety and surprise attacks in crowded streets, but each time they'd gotten too close, they had been unfailingly surprised by Elizabeth's knowledge of the human body and its weak points. When Booker had attempted to reason with one of the would-be kidnappers before the police arrived, trying his best to break it to them gently that their Prophet had died long before their grandmother and grandfather had, she had simply spat at the False Shepherd's feet and muttered fervently that he would rise again, greater and more powerful than before. He'd started to argue, wondering how the prematurely aged prophet could've managed that with the injuries he'd sustained during Booker's assault, but Elizabeth had dragged him away. When he'd asked why, she'd taken him to the library, not to pour over obscure literature as he'd feared would be the case, but to make him listen to a song on one of the public computers. Afterward, he'd grudgingly admitted that violence does breed violence, but hastened to bring up the next verse. She'd answered in exasperation, "'A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step', Booker." He'd asked what that had to do with the hard rock music she'd played for him, and she replied, "Everyone's got to start somewhere."
Not that it's all lectures and kidnapping attempts, though they are always on the move these days. The silver dollars he'd had left in his pockets from the vending machines were worth far far more than either of them had expected, so they can afford to do just about anything either of their hearts desire. Last week they went ice skating in New York. (The city had changed so much from the last time Booker had seen it that he'd even had to ask for directions a few times.) It was a new experience for both of them, and they'd come away bruised from several premature attempts at acrobatics, but contented.
He'd taken her out for drinks after that, and the expression on her face as she'd sipped her hot chocolate had warmed him almost as much as his coffee did. She definitely has a sweet tooth; she finished all the marshmallows before the cocoa.
Booker shakes himself awake now; has he been dreaming? No, just dozing. He pulls his face away from the window with a strange sticking noise. Elizabeth is right where he'd left her, wrapped up snugly in her new coat (three sizes too big; he doesn't have her eye for fashion) and still fast asleep. She's been growing her hair back, and a length of hair has fallen in front of her mouth. Booker amuses himself for a time by watching it flutter in and out as she breathes.
The conductor opens the door of the compartment and Booker fumbles for their tickets. The other man waits patiently. "No need to hurry. I've already done everybody else." he says in a deep baritone. Booker's checked all his pockets; now he frantically rummages through the bundles of presents. "Did you try behind the cushions?" the conductor suggests. Booker does so and a moment later sheepishly holds out the tickets. "Always the last place you look," the man chuckles as he examines them. He nods in satisfaction, punches holes in the top-right-hand corners and hands the stubs back to Booker. "You folks have a nice night. Oh!" He snaps his fingers as if he's just remembered. "And uh, happy holidays." He walks away, humming a carol as he goes.
His timing couldn't be better if he'd tried. Booker's electronic watch tolls a tinny midnight and the intercom overhead begins to play a 1988 rendition of We Wish You A Merry Christmas.
A few fresh flakes of snow flutter past the window. The moon is only occasionally visible through the gathering clouds. Booker stands up, swaying on his feet as the train rounds a bend. When the car steadies, he bends over and whispers "Merry Christmas, sweetheart" in Elizabeth's ear. He brushes the wayward strand of hair from her face and kisses her softly on the cheek.