Jack woke up with a fine layer of snow covering his person. He let it slide off his bare chest and stretched into the morning sun. A yawn like a bear evaporated into the unusually warm air and he picked up his staff, wondering what he ought to do. People were busy now, right? He scratched his head with the staff and looked around at the bland, white excitement he'd had for the day was slowly becoming disappointment.

Jack jumped into the wind and rode it all the way back to town, keeping his eyes straight and concentrated. For some reason he wasn't having any fun. What was this grim feeling? Why didn't he feel festive or Christmassy? Not only was he unhappy, he felt rather sick.

He landed near a snow-covered tree and put a hand to his forehead, frowning. It was warm; a new feeling. The warmth was ugly. Jack's fingers flinched but he kept his hand firmly on the white hair, trying and failing to cool off. The sun stared down at him like an angry villager, like the people who had driven him out of Burgess. Jack fell to the ground and immersed himself with snow, shaking off this burning sensation.

"Christmas Eve," he told himself, staggering to his feet. "It's Christmas Eve. After Christmas Eve, you can be sick. Right now, just watch. Who knows how long a year is. Watch the show. It'll be fun. Be sick later."

Of course, sheer willpower didn't seem to be enough. Jack, feeling the slight change in temperature that the sun seemed to love, collapsed to the ground again and felt around for his staff. Its familiar shape was comforting, but right now, anything besides this could be comforting. It felt like he was being engulfed by the sun, or boiled alive.

After about ten minutes of melting the snow around him, Jack inched forward for more, and then again ten minutes after that. Finally he found a pile that could last longer. He fell asleep, exhausted.

The sun indicated that it was past noon when he opened his eyes again. Morning was over; he needed to get to town, or he would miss everything...

Jack felt a little better. His patch of snow was almost gone, but a tree hovered nearby with a long shadow and thick trunk. He cautiously stuck a hand out into the sunlight, and felt its buttery warmth. This isn't so bad, Jack thought. But he still didn't like it, and wasn't afraid to say so. Still he persevered. With his staff, Jack shot up into the air and laughed, feeling as if the sickness he'd experienced was dripping down to the ground like an icicle.

The wind was deliciously sharp against his ghostly-white skin. It was cold, just the way he liked it, colder at least. When he landed in town there were a few people talking about what a shame it was, that it was so cold. Jack thought they were crazy, but he still listened.

"I've never liked the cold," one woman was saying. She wore a fading green dress and an apron. Like most of the women Jack observed, she had on a hat. Her expression was grim. "It's much too inconvenient, especially during Christmastime."

"I say, let it snow," an older man responded gruffly. Jack laughed at his dark beard and dirty hands. He liked the variations of human faces. "Shame about the food, but I'm selling just fine. Damn taxes are the problem."

"Yes, the taxes," someone else said.

"It's Christmas," the woman in green changed the subject, looking around wearily. "Let's not ruin all our fun. Where have the children got off to?"

Jack became uninterested in what they had to say, and instead focused his attention toward the children. They were close by, so her excuse for a change of subject was pretty lame. They were playing a game and Jack ran up to see what it was.

"...falling down, London bridge is falling down, my fair lay-dee!"

He smiled at this dull game; the children, no more than eight years old, ran in a long line through the two older kids, giggling the whole way. Jack's ears hurt when they sang out in high-pitched ugly voices, each one singing a different part than the others. He watched them for a few minutes, but a sudden rush of jealousy made him bitterly turn away.

It didn't seem much different than what he was used to watching. Where was the music? Or God? Or Jesus? He wondered if the little girl who'd told him was wrong. It just didn't make any sense.

Jack looked around at the depressing scene of the street. There was dirt on every surface, including skin and clothes and even doors. He began to wish he was still sleeping in the soft snow. Christmas Eve was proving to be uneventful.

For once, Jack didn't feel like having much fun. He looked at his staff and frowned at it, pondering over what could be wrong. Maybe he could make it snow, for that old man who liked it. But then he remembered the woman who disliked it, and he remembered the old woman who drove him out of Burgess, and then he decided that maybe it wouldn't be so fun right now. He wanted to have fun. No- he wanted to want it. But right now, all he could think about was that old woman. And the little girl Anita, the little girl he hurt.

"I'm not evil," he muttered, remembering what they'd said to him. He glanced at the street full of people and scowled at them. They were so kind to him- it wasn't fair. They were kind people. They were people who liked the weather and respected his presence. But did they know he was there? No. Not at all.

Jack realized with a sick twist in his stomach that no one, anywhere, knew or cared that he was alive.

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