Bod took his time walking back from work. Even though it was only five, the light had long faded from the overcast winter sky. For the sake of the kids on his street, he hoped that the blanket of gray would drop some snow. He had found that he liked it better when the sidewalk in front of the house was populated with the neighbor's kids. Snow brought people outside in a way that months of rain didn't.

On this day, houses were alternately deserted or lit up like beacons, depending on whether the inhabitants had left to spend Christmas with their family, or whether they were the family. Bod's housemates had left for the airport two days go. He'd volunteered to hold down the fort and make sure the ferret didn't freeze to death. They'd been a little surprised, but hadn't asked any questions, in case he changed his mind. Their voices had floated down the hall as they packed.

"He's probably Jewish."

"Have you seen him?"

"Atheist, then."

He was neither. Mr. and Mrs. Owens hadn't been particularly religious folk. Becoming a ghost tended to make people loosen up about such things, anyway. For one, it had been anyone's best guess as to exactly what day Christmas fell upon, or which spring morning marked Easter Sunday. Rituals such as feasts and fasts and even gift-giving rather lost their meaning in the graveyard.

So when Bod looked at the trees which twinkled through windows, he felt curious, a little wistful perhaps, but not sad.

Any number of things could had tipped him off to the fact the boy wasn't a typical child. The fact that he was outside, alone, on Christmas Eve. His unseasonable clothing. His silvery hair and unnaturally pale skin. The fact that he carried a wooden stick as tall as he was. The fact that his feet were bare.

Bod considered himself extremely cold-hardy, but even he wore shoes in the middle of winter.

The boy was wandering aimlessly up and down the road. Every now and then, he walked right up to a house and peered through the window, seemingly unafraid of being seen. Then he'd back off, looking satisfied, and go back to banging on random objects with the staff in his hands.

A gust of wind blew by, and the slim figure leaped into the air. For a moment, he could almost be flying.

Bod let out a gasp, causing the boy to notice him. He grinned evilly, and the next thing Bod knew, his feet were slipping on the ice that inexplicably coated the concrete. Grabbing a lamp post, he suddenly found that that was icy as well. His fingers slid off the slick metal and he ended up flat on his back.

Peals of laughter that could only belong to one person rang through the air. His fellow pedestrian was standing over him, apparently talking to himself.

"Safety, schmafety, North. I deserve a little fun." Bod waited for him to offer assistance, but it never came. The chatter continued. "He's fine, it's his fault for wandering around on Christmas Eve, when—"

"So are you," Bod pointed out irritably, hauling himself upright with the aid of a nearby trash bin. "Thanks for the help."

The boy stopped midsentence, mouth open in surprise. Up close, Bod could see that the kid couldn't be much younger than himself. Three or four years, at most. Bod glared at his astonishment.

"Hello?" said the boy uncertainly, waving a hand in front of his face. Bod took a step back, blinking. "Can-can you see me?" He actually spun around to check if there was a person behind him.

"There'll be a bruise, but my vision's fine," said Bod, gingerly feeling the lump on his head. "I don't think that was very funny."

"You're gonna be fine, I made sure the wind broke your fall," replied the boy automatically. "But—you are talking to me, right?" He gestured to himself.

"Yes, I'm talking to you," Bod snapped, wondering what the fuss was. The boy seemed to be struggling to digest this information.

"You wouldn't happen to know a kid called Jamie Bennett, would you? Or Sophie Bennett?" he asked suddenly.

"Never heard of them. Who're they? Who're you?"

"You mean you don't know?" The boy sounded incredulous. "But-but you see me!"

"I really don't know who you are, or why you like watching people nearly kill themselves slipping on ice," said Bod. A suspicion formed in his head. "Are you a ghost?"

The boy laughed at a joke Bod did not understand. "Close," he said. "Wanna guess again?"

Bod didn't particularly, but he said the first name that popped into his head anyway. Blame it on the season. "Santa Claus."

This caused the boy to roar with laughter.

"Oh, man, that's just too good. I'm gonna have to tell this one to North." He wiped tears of mirth from his eyes. "Closer, but I'll make it easy on ya. I'm Jack. Jack Frost." He bowed mockingly.

Bod's blood ran cold. He thought fast. The man Jack had definitely been swallowed into the stone. Check. Silas had not contacted him with a warning. Check. As far as he knew, the man Jack had not become a ghost. Check. (Plus, the boy had denied it when Bod had asked him.) Lastly, this strange person just didn't feel dangerous. If he had wanted to hurt Bod, he could have done so any time while Bod was walking.

"I gotta say, you're a little older than most of my believers," remarked Frost, casually leaning on his staff. "Not that I care or anything."

Bod eyed the staff. It looked like it would hurt, but not lethally. Probably.

"So," Frost went on, "It's Christmas Eve. What're you doing out here? Everyone else is at home with their family."

Surely the real Jack would know the answer to that.

"You're not Jack Frost," Bod said without thinking. "I know who he is. And you're not him."

The boy looked hurt. "What? I am too. And will you quit looking at me like that, like I'm going to attack you or something. I swear, I've never nipped a nose in my life." When Bod continued to regard him warily, he kept talking. "Anyway, shouldn't you be getting back to your family?"

"They're dead," Bod said shortly.

For a moment the boy's face was unreadable. Then: "Oh."

That one syllable was all it took. It wasn't him, Bod realized. The man Jack, even when he was Jay, ahd never been capable of showing such genuine sympathy. They may have shared the same name, but this was someone completely different, though still out of the ordinary.

"Who are you?" asked Bod in a new voice.

All traces of sadness vanished from Frost's face. "Didn't I just tell you? Jack Frost, Spirit of Winter." He rapped his staff playfully on the trash bin. Fascinated, Bod watched as an icy flower bloomed on the metal surface.

Spirit, not ghost. "Shouldn't you be painting windowsills or something?" Bod said vaguely, remembering a folktale of Mrs. Owens's. "Making it snow?"

Frost shook his head. "Can't. Not until everyone's made it home. As soon as they're all in, though..." he grinned in anticipation, rubbing his hands together. "But till then, you could say I'm out of a job."

Bod had no idea what made him say what he said next. It could have been that he was more envious of his housemates than he would admit. Or maybe some part of him identified with this odd young man, waiting for the streets to be deserted so that he could run free.

"Would you like to come with me? Just until the roads clear up, I mean."

Frost reacted with delight, then worry. "Really? Me? I wouldn't be getting in your way or anything, would I?"

Bod shook his head. "No." He had the feeling, now, that Frost had been waiting for him to ask.

I think Bod can see Jack, even though he doesn't believe in him, because 1) Bod's good at seeing hard-to-see things, and 2) Jack's technically already dead. So he's like a quasi-ghost. But easier to see than a real ghost, because he's alive. In a sense. That was the most contradictory reasoning ever.