He still hadn’t answered her question.
“Aren’t you going home?” She handed him a moist paper towel, but he wasn’t entirely covered in glue the way everyone else had been: she and Julia and Anita Kaufman and the rest of the small class who’d agreed to be her guinea pigs.
“Christmas is like Thanksgiving. It’s just a day, Fleming. I don’t have children. I don’t have to eat cookies for Santa or carrots for Rudolph.”
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