"And a fine, uh, Martinmass to you as well," Max said, glad he hadn't accidentally called it Martin Mull like he had been doing for most of the trip over. Raised Jewish, he struggled to keep track of all these Christian holidays. He pulled his coat tighter against the chill November air, pulled down the straps of the foxy hat- he had seen no reason to get rid of it after the incident in October.

"As promised, I come bearing gifts," he said, lifting the box he cradled into view. A case of Gösser Austrian beer for Lenya, as well as a few bottles of Cayford's, a craft cider local to Maine. The best of both worlds, in his opinion. "Do you need a hand with anything? I'm no expert but I know my way around a kitchen."