Page 52 of Mistletoe, Mayhem & Mr. Grump
"There's a competition for that?"
"Just like committees, there's a competition for everything," Teddy says, already speed-walking toward the square.
"Why does everything here have a competition?" I mutter.
"Gives us purpose between seasons," Finn explains.
My phone rings again. This time I pull it out to decline the call, but Teddy gasps.
"Did that say Pierce Industries?" he asks, stopping mid-stride.
"How do you know about Pierce Industries?" I deflect.
"My nephew works there. Says it's soul-crushing, but the dental is excellent," Teddy explains. "Why do you have them on your phone?"
"I...?" I try.
"Can we focus on the tree emergency?" I plead.
"Tree emergency!" Teddy remembers, resuming his frantic pace.
We arrive at the square to find the town tree indeed experiencing what can only be described as an existential crisis. It's leaning at approximately a fifteen-degree angle, like it's trying to escape.
"It's making a break for it," Wren says, appearing beside me with a clipboard.
"How long have you been here?" I ask.
"Since Teddy sent the bat signal," she says, showing me her phone with seventeen text messages, all variations of "TREE DISASTER" with increasingly creative emoji combinations.
"There's a Bat-Signal?"
"It's just Teddy screaming in the group chat," she explains. "Very effective, though."
Delia stands at the base of the tree, directing operations with the efficiency of a general preparing for a battle.
"We need to pull it straight before the inspector arrives," she announces, pointing at various people. "Finn, get the truck. Teddy, find rope. Lots of rope."
"What kind of rope?" Teddy asks.
"The kind that ropes things," Delia says impatiently.
"All rope ropes things. That's what makes it rope," Teddy points out.
"Then get all of it!" she commands.
"I'll help," I offer, following Teddy toward the hardware store.
"Oh good, corporate hands to help with manual labor," Wren teases, falling into step beside us.
"My hands are becoming less corporate daily," I inform her, showing her a fresh callus.
"One callus doesn't make you blue collar," she says, but she takes my hand to examine it closer. "Though this is impressive. Did you name it?"
"Why would I name a callus?"
"I name everything," she admits. "My anxieties, my plants, that weird stain on my ceiling that looks like Elvis."
"Elvis?" I ask.
