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Until that moment he had not realized how close he was to tears. His throat constricted dangerously. He was not sure he would be able to breathe, let alone speak. He shut his eyes and had a brief, nearly crippling tactile memory of his cheek pressing to his father’s bristly face, his father’s rough, three-day growth of spiky brown bear fur.

“Dad,” he said. “Dad. I’m in the back of a car. I can’t get out.”

He tried to explain, but it was hard. It was hard to get all the air he needed to speak, hard to speak through his tears. His eyes burned. His vision blurred. It was hard to explain about the Gasmask Man and Charlie Manx and Hooper and gingerbread smoke and how the backseat went on forever. He wasn’t sure what he said. Something about Manx. Something about the car.

Then the Gasmask Man was shooting again. The gun went off over and over as he fired at the float. His pistol jumped in his hand, flashing in the dark. When had it gotten so dark?

“They’re shooting, Dad!” Wayne said in a hoarse, strained tone of voice he hardly recognized. “They’re shooting at Mom!”

Wayne peered out through the windshield, into the gloom, but couldn’t tell if any of the bullets had hit his mother or not. He couldn’t see her. She was part of the lake, the darkness. How she took to darkness. How easily she slipped away from him.

Manx did not stay to watch the Gasmask Man shoot the water. He was already halfway up the hill. He clutched the side of his head like a man listening to an earpiece, receiving a message from his superiors. Although it was impossible to conceive of anyone who might be superior to Manx.

The Gasmask Man emptied his gun and turned away from the water himself. He swayed as he began to mount the hill, walking like one supporting a great burden on his shoulders. They would reach the car soon. Wayne did not know what would happen then but still had his wits about him well enough to know that if they saw his phone, they would take it away.

“I have to go,” Wayne told his father. “They’re coming back. I’ll call when I can. Don’t call me, they might hear it. They might hear even if I turn it to mute.”

His father was shouting his name, but there wasn’t time to say more. Wayne hit END CALL and flicked the phone over to mute.

He looked for a place to stick the phone, thinking he would shove it down between the seats. But then he saw there were walnut drawers with polished silver knobs set beneath the front seats. He slid one open, flipped the phone in, and kicked it shut as Manx opened the driver’s-side door.

Manx slung the silver hammer onto the front seat and climbed halfway in. He held a silk handkerchief to the side of his face, but he lowered it when he saw Wayne kneeling on the carpeted floor. Wayne made a small, shrill sound of horror at the sight of Manx’s face. Two distinct strings of ear dangled from the side of his head. His long, gaunt face wore a dull red wash of blood. A flap of skin hung from his forehead, some of his eyebrow sticking to it. Bone glistened beneath.

“I suppose I look quite a fright,” Manx said, and grinned to show pink-stained teeth. He pointed to the side of his head. “Ear today, gone tomorrow.”

Wayne felt faint. The back of the car seemed unaccountably dark, as if Manx had brought the night in with him when he opened the door.

The tall man dropped behind the wheel. The door slammed itself shut—and then the window cranked itself up. It wasn’t Manx, couldn’t be Manx doing it. He was clutching one hand to his ear again, and the other was gently pressed to that loose flap of skin across his brow.

The Gasmask Man had reached the passenger-side door and pulled on the handle—but as he did, the lock slammed down.

The gearshift wiggled and clunked into reverse. The car lunged a few feet backward, rocks spitting from under the tires.

“No!” the Gasmask Man screamed. He was holding the latch when the car moved and was almost dragged off balance. He stumbled after the car, trying to keep one hand on the hood, as if he could hold the Rolls-Royce in place. “No! Mr. Manx! Don’t go! I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it! It was a mistake!”

His voice was ragged with horror and grief. He ran to the passenger door and grabbed the latch and pulled again.

Manx leaned toward him. Through the window he said, “You are on my naughty list now, Bing Partridge. You have big ideas if you think I ought to take you to Christmasland after the mess you have made. I am afraid to let you in. How do I know, if I allow you to ride with us, that you will not riddle the car with bullets?”

“I swear, I’ll be nice! I’ll be nice, I will, I’ll be nice as sugar and spice! Don’t leave! I’m sorry. I’m so sawwwwwwreee!” The inside of his gasmask was steamed over, and he spoke between sobs. “I wish I’d shot myself! I do! I wish it was my ear! Oh, Bing Bing, you stupid thing!”

“That is plenty of your ridiculous noise. My head hurts enough as it is.”

The lock banged back up. The Gasmask Man yanked the door open and fell into the car. “I didn’t mean it! I swear I didn’t mean it. I will do anything! Anything!” His eyes widened in a flash of inspiration. “I could cut my ear off! My own ear! I don’t care! I don’t need it, I have two! Do you want me to cut off my own ear?”

“I want you to shut up. If you feel like cutting something off, you could start with your tongue. Then at least we would have some peace.”

The car accelerated in reverse, thudding down onto blacktop, undercarriage crunching. As it hit the road, it slopped around to the right, to face back in the direction of the highway. The gearshift wiggled again and jumped into drive.