To Marie, Christmas meant the sweet smell of pine, smiling parents, and presents tied with a bow.

This year, she toured a fragrant tree farm. She wrapped herself a small gift. Then she collapsed in front of their snow-capped stone, accepting she’d only celebrate two-thirds of Christmas from now on.

Ian Li writes speculative fiction and poetry from Toronto. Formerly an economist and consultant, he also loves spreadsheets, statistical curiosities, and brain teasers. Find his writing at Radon Journal, Flame Tree Press, and 365 Tomorrows, as well as at ian-li.com.