Don’t do a train horn. As someone with ptsd and a heart condition, those things are an absolute menace.

Knock knock Who’s there? A deaf guy. A deaf guy who? …

I arrived well after the other wise men, sweating through my robes and wishing I’d taken a shorter route. I knelt beside the manger and laid out the lamb’s-wool scarf I’d meant to bring. It was soft, pure, perfect. Except the shearing accident had splattered it with dried blood. Mary stared. Joseph’s eyebrows climbed halfway to heaven.

“It’s prophetic symbolism,” I muttered. “You know… blood of the lamb?”

The silence was so heavy it felt like a fourth gift.

Panicking, I pulled a small winter squash from my pack and set it beside the scarf. “And this. For… later.”

The baby gurgled. I decided to take that as forgiveness.