The Cold Breath of Fir and Exhaust Fumes

The metal hand truck bit into Lonnie’s gloved hands, cold even through the worn fabric. Its wheels, usually so amenable, protested against the thick, grey slush that coated the pavement, refusing to roll freely. Each push was a strain, a grunt escaping his lips, quickly lost in the groan of a distant bus and the ceaseless thrum of rush-hour traffic. The cardboard boxes stacked precariously high on the dolly felt less like festive deliveries and more like solid blocks of lead, anchoring him to the biting December air.

He shuffled, one boot sliding, then the other, the grit of salt underfoot doing little to improve traction. Head down, scarf pulled up past his chin, he watched the dirty ice splinter under the weight of his efforts. His nose felt numb, and the exposed skin around his eyes stung with the cold. Another twelve stops. Twelve more parcels. Twelve more brief, polite interactions, if he was lucky. Then he could go home. Home, where the boiler made a grinding noise that always meant more expense, and Grandmother probably needed another cup of chamomile. Milo would be waiting, bundled under a duvet, probably sketching fantastical beasts in a notebook that was rapidly running out of pages.

A taxi, a yellow blur, splashed a wave of icy water over his left boot, soaking through the already damp leather. Lonnie bit back a curse, staring at the diminishing tail lights, a dull anger simmering under his fatigue. It wasn't the driver's fault, not really. Everyone was in a hurry, everyone had somewhere warm to be, something important to do. Except him. He was just… moving boxes. Pushing. Always pushing. The city felt like a giant, indifferent machine, and he was just one of the cogs, scraping against the rust.

He veered sharply to avoid a fallen Christmas tree, its pine needles already shedding a carpet of green onto the grime. The smell, sharp and sweet, mingled incongruously with the exhaust fumes and wet concrete. A sudden, absurd thought: people paid good money for these things, only for them to end up here, flattened and forgotten. He wished he had a forgotten tree. They could use it. Grandmother liked the smell of pine. But a tree meant lights, and lights meant more electricity, and more electricity meant… he squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, the dull ache behind them intensifying.

Finally, a reprieve. The towering, red-brick apartment block at 34 Elmwood Avenue. A behemoth of the seventies, it seemed to absorb all sound, exhaling a faint, stale warmth into the frosty air. Getting the hand truck through the revolving door was always an exercise in spatial reasoning and brute force, a dance between stubborn metal and unyielding glass. He managed it, barely, scraping a knuckle against the doorframe, a tiny pinprick of pain that felt almost welcome, a distraction from the deeper exhaustion.

The lift was slow, creaking its way to the seventh floor. He leaned against the cool metal, letting the monotonous hum vibrate through him. Apartment 7B. He checked the delivery slip again, the address smudged with damp. He hoped it wasn’t another return. Not today. Not with his shift already running late and the light outside fading to a definitive, inky black.

A small woman answered, her grey hair a wispy halo around her head, a soft, knitted shawl draped over her shoulders. Mrs. Anderson. He remembered her. Always had a gentle smile. Her apartment, even from the hallway, smelled of cinnamon and old paper. "Hello, dear," she said, her voice a little breathless, her spectacles perched precariously on the end of her nose. "Right on time, aren't you?" Lonnie offered a tired smile. "Just about, ma'am. Packages for you."

He wheeled the hand truck in, navigating around a small, wobbly table laden with framed photographs. The boxes, three of them, were surprisingly light. Probably books. Or more likely, festive decorations she’d ordered online. He set them down carefully, making sure not to scuff her polished hardwood floor. "Let me just sign… oh, my pen. It's always running away from me, that pen." She rummaged through a small ceramic bowl on the table, her fingers bony and slow. Lonnie waited, shifting his weight. He didn't mind the wait with Mrs. Anderson. She was… calm.

"There we are!" she exclaimed, producing a small, flowery pen with a flourish. She scrawled her signature, a delicate, looping script. "You must be freezing, out there," she said, her eyes, magnified by the lenses, studying his face. "Wouldn't you like a cup of tea? Or… I just made some hot chocolate. With a little bit of brandy, if you're allowed? It’ll warm you right up." Lonnie's stomach rumbled. Hot chocolate. Brandy. It sounded like a dream, a completely alien concept in his day-to-day. "Oh, no, ma'am, I couldn't. I've got a few more stops, you see. Running a bit behind as it is."

Her smile softened. "Nonsense. Just a moment, then." She disappeared into the kitchen, returning shortly with a steaming mug, no brandy, but thick with whipped cream, and a foil-wrapped square. "Here," she insisted, pressing it into his gloved hand. "You take this. A little shortbread. My own recipe." The warmth of the mug seeped through the glove, a sudden, surprising comfort. "Thank you, Mrs. Anderson. Really. Thank you." He felt a flush creep up his neck, a mix of embarrassment and genuine gratitude. People didn't just… give him things. Not usually. He clutched the mug, the weight of it feeling like something far more substantial than hot chocolate.

The Weight of Gold Tinsel

Back in the lift, the mug still warm, Lonnie took a cautious sip. The sweetness was a shock, rich and creamy, utterly different from the thin, bitter coffee he’d nursed all morning. He ate the shortbread in three quick, almost desperate bites. It crumbled in his mouth, buttery and familiar, like a ghost of comfort from a past he couldn't quite grasp. The lift descended, taking him away from the cinnamon-scented warmth, back to the harsh reality of the street. But a residue remained, a small, glowing ember in his chest.

He thought of Mrs. Anderson, her quiet kindness, the way her eyes twinkled behind her spectacles. She had nothing to gain from him, a scruffy delivery driver, yet she'd offered warmth, a moment of respite. He contrasted it with the frantic, hurried customers, the ones who slammed doors, the ones who didn’t even look him in the eye. Was this what Christmas was supposed to be? Not the glittering shops and the forced cheer, but these small, unexpected gestures? He rubbed his thumb over the ceramic rim of the mug, still warm.

Outside, the streetlights were fully ablaze now, casting long, distorted shadows that danced with every passing car. The festive decorations, so garish and bright from a distance, seemed almost aggressive up close. Strands of multicoloured lights wrapped around lampposts, reflecting in puddles of icy water. A family walked past, laughing, a child bundled in a bright red coat pointing at a storefront display. Lonnie watched them, an unshakeable sense of being on the outside looking in. He was a shadow amongst the sparkle, a cold hand on a warm mug.

The remaining deliveries blurred into a single, monotonous rhythm of pushing, stopping, knocking. His legs ached, a deep, persistent throb. His back complained. The hand truck felt heavier with each passing street. He was tired, bone-deep, the kind of tired that made his vision swim at the edges. He just needed to finish. Just needed to get home. He thought of Milo’s sketches, the elaborate dragons and gryphons that populated his younger brother's imagination. He wished, for a second, he could just draw, too. Escape into a world that wasn’t cold, and slushy, and full of boxes.

A Frayed Thread

His phone vibrated in his pocket, a sudden, jarring buzz against his hip. He fumbled for it, nearly dropping the heavy device in the slush. It was his aunt, Mary. Her face, a little worried, stared back at him from the cracked screen. "Lonnie? You alright, love?" she asked, her voice tight, a little higher than usual. He could hear the faint clatter of dishes in the background, a TV murmuring.

"Yeah, I'm fine, Aunt Mary. Just… on my last few deliveries. Why? Is everything okay?" He instinctively braced himself. Whenever she called this late, it wasn't for a chat about the weather.

A pause. A sigh. "It's your grandmother. She… well, she had another spell today. A bit of a fall. Nothing broken, thank goodness, but she’s quite shaken. And the nurse… well, she thinks it might be time, Lonnie. To consider… more options. Like the assisted living place down in Willow Creek. Or… someone full-time."

The mug, still in his other hand, suddenly felt like a feather. Assisted living. Full-time care. The words hit him like a physical blow, stealing his breath. He knew, intellectually, that this day would come. But knowing it and facing it were entirely different things. The numbers, cold and stark, flashed through his mind, obliterating the fleeting warmth of Mrs. Anderson’s shortbread. Willow Creek was expensive. Full-time care was… impossible. He could barely cover their current bills. His job, this endless pushing of boxes, barely kept them afloat.

He squeezed his eyes shut again, a longer, harder press. The streetlights bled into blurry halos behind his eyelids. "Aunt Mary… I don't know," he said, his voice rough, barely a whisper against the city's drone. "I just… I don't know what we're going to do. What *I’m* going to do."

He opened his eyes. The world looked different now, sharper, colder. The hand truck stood before him, solid and unforgiving. He had two more stops. Two more boxes. And then, he had a decision to make. A huge, life-altering decision that felt like another impossible weight, heavier than any delivery, crushing the last vestiges of festive hope from his weary bones. He looked at his hand, still clutching the empty mug, and then at the bleak, unyielding street ahead. There had to be another way. There *had* to be.

He just didn’t know what it was, or where to even begin looking.