Michael was in his room at the mansion, sprawled on the bed. There was a knock at the door. He groaned as he got up to answer it. A drawback of living where he worked. Not that he was home often enough to justify paying rent on an apartment.

He opened the door to find Devon, of course. His boss was dressed in a light blue suit, cream shirt, and a tasteful Christmas-themed tie. The man must have a dozen of them, maybe more.

"Devon, hello. Is there some Foundation event I forgot about?"

"Good heavens, no. It is Christmas Eve, after all."

"You're all dressed up."

"Yes, well, I am about to head out for dinner with friends before going to Midnight Mass." Devon paused, then added, "I cannot invite you to join us for dinner, not at this late date. However, if you would care to attend Midnight Mass with us . . ."

"No, no," said Michael, relieved he wasn't required to be somewhere. "I'm fine here. Have fun."

"Before I leave, I wanted to give you this." Devon handed over an elegant, gift-wrapped box, complete with ribbon. "Happy Christmas, Michael."

Michael accepted the gift. "Um, thanks."

"Enjoy your evening, Michael. And I will see you at brunch tomorrow."

"Yeah, you, too, Devon."

Devon nodded graciously and then left. Michael shut the door. He looked at the present and put it on the dresser. Then he checked his watch. The Foundation head cook let Michael use the kitchen when it wasn't being used for an event. His last name was – had been – Long, but his mother had been Italian. Christmas Eve dinner was always lasagna. Michael was making his mother's recipe, as he had every year since she had died.

He walked through the quiet building to the kitchen. Everyone else was spending the holidays with their family and friends. Michael pulled the lasagna out of the oven. He decided to eat in the kitchen rather than walking all the way to the equally empty dining room.

After dinner, he cleaned up after himself, as much to have something to do as to keep on the head cook's good side. Then he returned to his room. He spotted the gift where he had put it earlier. He picked it back up and hefted it thoughtfully.

Raising his commlink, he asked, "Kitt, where are you?"

"I am in the garage, of course. Where did you expect me to be?"

"I don't know. Maybe you help Santa deliver presents."

"Really, Michael?"

"I'll be there in a few, pal."

Michael slowly wandered to the garage, waving at the security guards he passed on the way. Another reason to live at the mansion rather than in an apartment: someone was keeping an eye on the place 24/7. Several someones, as a matter of fact. Kitt was waiting for him. He opened the driver's door, and Michael got in and leaned back in the seat, eyes closed.

"Do you wish to drive somewhere?"

"No point. Most places are closed on Christmas Eve."

"I do not understand the concept of Christmas."

"No, I guess you wouldn't." Michael thought about how best to explain the holiday. "It's basically a time to spend with family and friends. If you're religious, you go to church, too. Or if you really like Christmas music."

"Like Devon?"

"Yeah, like Devon."

"You do not wish to go to church?"

Michael shook his head. "Being alone in a crowd? Not my thing, pal." He then lapsed into an unhappy silence.

Kitt was concerned about Michael's melancholy. He understood the cause. Humans were, in Kitt's admittedly limited experience, social creatures. Michael was not spending the holiday with those he should be with because they all thought he was dead. Or were dead themselves, such as his previous partner. However, he had turned down both Devon's and Kitt's suggestion of church. Kitt wasn't sure what he could do to help Michael, but he knew he had to try.

"What is in the box, Michael?"

"Hmm?" Michael glanced around, clearly having forgotten about it. "Oh, it's a Christmas gift from Devon."

"I can see that, Michael. I meant: what is inside?"

"I've no idea."

"Shall I scan –"

"No!" Michael came upright. "No, no, no. That's not how you handle a present."

Kitt knew that Michael enjoyed explaining the vagaries and nuances of human behavior to him. Therefore, he wasn't surprised by the complete change in Michael's demeanor. He was now fully engaged rather than listless, eager to explain another aspect of human behavior to his not-human partner.

"Look, Kitt, half the fun of getting a present is guessing what it is."

"Without scanners and sensors, how do you have a basis for your guess?"

"Size. Weight. Noise it makes when you shake it. Who gave it to you."

Michael picked up the box. It was about the size of a small brick, though nowhere near as heavy as a brick would be. He shook it and heard nothing.

"What have you learned so far, Michael?"

"Not candy or a book. No noise when I shook it and not the right size plus too light."

"Why would you guess either?"

"It's from Devon."

"I can see guessing a book, though you don't read that much."

"No time, really. And candy is an easy gift when you don't know what to get someone. Mostly because it's consumable."

"Why would that be an important trait for a gift?" Kitt was intrigued by Michael's thought process.

"The recipient isn't stuck finding a place to put a gift that's consumable. Wine is another good choice, but the box isn't big enough. And it didn't slosh."

"Do you have any other guesses?"

Michael mulled it over for a moment. "No, not really. So . . . time to open it."

To Kitt's surprise, Michael did not rip open the gift. Instead, he carefully removed the ribbon and then undid the wrapping paper. He set both to one side. Apparently, the anticipation was so much a part of the fun that he was doing all he could to keep it going. Kitt wondered if Devon had known that giving Michael a gift would cheer him up this much. He suspected so; Devon seemed unusually perceptive about these things.

Inside was a box. On top was a folded piece of linen stationery paper. Michael unfolded it and immediately recognized Devon's handwriting.

Michael –

I know we did not start off on the right foot. And I take full responsibility for that. You were, rightly, disoriented. Your partner was dead. You had expected to die yourself. Instead, you awoke to a new face, a new name, and new identity. Not to mention the trauma of having been shot in the face, and by someone you had trusted.

However, you have adapted to your new circumstances admirably. You have handled each of your assignments quite well. And they have all been yours. Even when I have assisted, it has been at your request and direction.

You have proven Wilton correct: One man can make a difference. And here is the proof. These are all expressions of appreciation from those that you have helped. There are postcards, brief notes, and even full letters. I have not read any of them, as they were addressed to you. Instead, I have placed each one in this box as they arrived in the mail.

I know you lost a lot in that Nevada desert. I hope that what you have gained, in some small measure, begins to make up for that loss.

And I fully expect to give you a much bigger box next year.

It was signed simply: Devon.

Michael was momentarily stunned. Then he opened the box and pulled out the first one. It was a sealed envelope with a return address in Silicon Valley. Opening it, he found a lengthy letter from Maggie along with a separate note from Buddy.

Maggie thanked him for finding the people responsible for her husband's murder and bringing them to justice. Comptron had paid out her husband's life insurance policy, so she could afford to spend more time with her son. And her friends were no longer afraid to be seen with her. Buddy, for his part, thanked Michael for making his mom smile again. And asked when he could ride Kitt again, preferably in another race.

Michael pulled out a postcard from the middle of the box. It was a picture of Columbia University and was postmarked New York City. Carol Reston had sent it, to let Michael know that she had finished the article her ex-husband had been writing on Judge Paxton, had it published in the local newspaper, and had then submitted it for consideration for a Pulitzer Prize.

"Michael?" Kitt asked softly.

Michael had a lump in his throat and tears in his eyes. And he realized that Devon was wrong. These weren't his. Or rather they weren't only his. They were his and Kitt's.

"Devon's gift. It's thank-yous from everyone we've helped so far."

"And you consider this an acceptable gift?"

"Oh, yes," breathed Michael. "Devon gave us the perfect gift."

"Us?"

"Yes, pal. Us. I wouldn't have been able to help any of these people without you. You were instrumental in assisting them."

Michael put the postcard back and pulled the first envelope back out, the one with the letter from Maggie and the note from Buddy. And he began reading out loud to his partner.