FSE

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The bell on the diner's door jangled, stilled, jangled again spasmodically as a blast of cool air came in from the mostly-empty city street outside. "Hi, Frank," Jean said. She hadn't looked up from the counter, cleaning rag still in hand; she just knew it'd be him, somehow. She could do that with all the regulars.

He could have looked worse, but he was an hour and three coffees away from looking sober. As he fumbled his way past the door, the tiger waved grandly. "Merry Christmas!" He managed a credibly straight line to a seat at the counter right in front of the collie; she was setting down a full cup of coffee-one sugar, two creams-as he thumped heavily into place.

"Merry Christmas, Frank." She glanced over at the clock. Eleven-thirty. "Shouldn't you be in bed dreaming about dancing sugar plums?"

"Feh." Frank reached up to straighten his collar, instead just mangling it more. She leaned forward to straighten it for him as he kept speaking. "No Christmas bonus this year, you know. Bastards."

She knew. His office hadn't given him a bonus for the last eight years and she heard about it every year in late December. But he'd only been in Joe's on Christmas Eve once before, though, five years ago when Gracey and he had separated. They'd gotten back together by the next Easter. She wondered what tragedy had brought him this Christmas Eve.

His brow furrowed. "What the hell is a sugar plum, anyway?"

"An old-fashioned candy."

"You're so smart," Frank said, with the dopey sincerity of a professional drinker. "But this is the last Christmas Eve I can spend at Joe's. Gracey's pissed, but I hadda spend at least part of it here."

Oh. It wasn't his tragedy that brought him here, it was hers. She hadn't needed the reminder that Joe's was closing for good in six days. "Thanks, Frank. I'll get you a breakfast going." She put in the tiger's usual order and headed over to one of the few other occupied tables with the coffee pot.

Nick, the wolf sitting there, straightened out of his own slouch as she approached. "Thank you kindly." He'd finished his own dinner an hour ago, and a pie slice on top of that. Now he just sat with a coffee and a cigarette. This was one of the few eateries you could still smoke at, grandfathered in with some obscure legal loophole. Maybe the last one in the city. He was a jazz player, another regular; the gig he'd been expecting to be at tonight had been cancelled.

"You're always welcome," she said, smiling. "Weren't you supposed to give up smoking this year?"

"I'm working up to it."

She crossed her arms, looking disapproving. "You said that last year, and the year before that."

"I work slow." He set the cigarette down on the edge of the ashtray and took a sip of the coffee. "We know why I'm here and why Frank's here, and I bet you know why...." He turned and motioned with his cup toward an older otter woman sitting in the corner booth clipping out coupons.

"Ella," she said. "With her husband dead and the kids on the other side of the country..." The collie shrugged.

"And I bet you know everybody else's story here, too. Why they're here tonight."

She laughed. "Not everyone's."

"But most of 'em. The mystery is why are you in a diner on Christmas Eve, Jean?"

She paused, tail curling down. The question seemed absurd. "It's what I do for a living."

"Sure, but you don't have to work tonight. You just always do. Least every time I've ended up here." He took a drag on the cigarette, then waved it in an arc, the tip tracing a dimly glowing line. "Everybody else here-'cept the ones who want to see the place off, I guess-is here 'cause they got nowhere else to go. You don't seem like that kinda type."

Jean considered, looking around. The diner was far from bustling, just eight customers-two couples and four loners. She knew all of them by name. "People with nowhere to go still end up somewhere, Nick. The way I see it, somebody's got to be wherever they are, and it might as well be me."

Blinding white light suddenly flooded the diner, overwhelming the old incandescents inside and the blue neon that normally shone through the window. Jean turned toward the plate glass windows, shielding her eyes. She thought she could make a figure out in the light walking toward the door.

The door opened, and they could hear the sound of a truck engine running. A fox stepped inside. He stood tall, over six feet, and he wore a white business suit, expertly tailored. After a moment, the truck engine and the light went off, and two more foxes stepped in, shorter but just as dapper, flanking him. It felt disturbingly like the start of a scene in a TV gangster movie that would end with them all whipping out submachine guns.

Instead, though, the fox just clasped his hands in front of him. "Happy Christmas, Jean."

The collie squinted, frowning. "Do I know you?"

"No, you don't. Not really." He smiled, and stepped forward. "But you're indirect family to me-just like you've been to hundreds of people who've come through here late at night."

"Right," she said, cautiously. "Can I get you and your friends anything?"

"I can't be here for long. I've got a lot of places to be tonight."

She put a hand on her hip. "You're not exactly what I picture when I think of Santa."

"No, I'd think not." He laughed, and the other two foxes smirked. "But if I could bring you any gift, Jean, what would it be?"

"Can I say world peace?"

"You can, but that's a tough one."

"Well. There's so much." She hadn't had a working car for nearly a decade. She'd never been able to afford more than a studio flat in a drafty old building. She'd never traveled. A couple times she thought she'd been in love, but she'd spent most of the eighteen years she'd worked here secretly hoping her Prince Charming would just wander into Joe's and order biscuits.

Sighing, the collie shook her head. "You know what? I'd just keep Joe's open."

He nodded slowly, as if he'd expected that answer. "It's been here, what is it, fifty-eight years. My father spent a lot of time here. He used to say you saved his life."

"I saved his life." She wracked her brain. Did she know any older foxes who used to be regulars? Dozens, maybe. "I appreciate the thought. I've never saved anyone's life, unless you count keeping Mrs. Abernathy from swallowing a chicken bone twelve years ago."

Frank cleared his throat. "You've probably saved mine three times now."

Jean stared at him.

"Pies can be a bright spot," the tiger said, suddenly sounding self-conscious. He looked away.

The collie ran a hand through her hair.

"You mighta done that for me by some measures," Nick chimed in with a soft grin. "You make this somewhere to be."

Ella the otter stood up. "You make this place home, Jean."

Someone-she didn't see who-started clapping. Then everyone else joined in. Jean's ears flattened; she had no idea what to do, and she ended up looking at the coffee-stained carpet until the applause died down.

The white-suited fox leaned forward and tilted her head up gently. Before she could react, he gave her a soft kiss on the nose. "Thank you."

The collie's eyes widened. She felt like she should slap him, but she didn't.

The lights and truck engine came on outside again. "You'll see me again after New Year's," the fox said.

"But... Joe's will be closed then."

He shook his head with a slight smile. "Have faith, Jean. I'll be back for biscuits." He stepped back outside.

She blinked, twice, as the lights receded.

Nick broke the silence by striking a match for a new cigarette. "Well, wasn't that mysterious. Christmas angel, or Christmas fruitcake?"

"For now, I'm going with angel," Jean said after a moment.

"Order up!" the unseen cook called. She headed behind the counter to pick up Frank's plate.