Gareth Lightfoot ran a traveling tent for anyone lost. That was the whole of his work: a chair, a handful of peanuts, and warm light until you could walk again. On the coldest night of the year, three strangers stumbled toward his little lantern with frost in their hair and nowhere to sleep. Gareth counted them. Then he counted the beds inside his tent. There were not enough. "Come in," he said anyway. He always said it. He worried about the rest later. The tent glowed pink and gray, patched from a hundred old journeys. Three chairs waited by a low table. But three travelers plus Gareth plus Mabel made five, and the walls pressed close. A tall traveler ducked his head. A woman held a shivering child. Gareth's stomach sank. His whole life was one promise, and tonight the promise was too small to hold everyone. Mabel Sparks crawled out from under the table, goggles shoved up her wild red hair. She was his tinkerer, and she never let him quit at "good enough." She looked at the crowd, then grinned like she'd found treasure. "You're doing the sad math again," she said. "Stop counting chairs. Count rope." "Mabel, there's no room." "So we make room." She was already digging through a crate. Outside stood the crooked tree, its peanut-shaped pods glowing soft and golden in the dark. Beside it, the little gray elephant calf nosed at a coil of rope and dragged it toward them, ears flapping. Mabel laughed and grabbed the loose end. "See? Even he's helping." They worked fast against the cold. Mabel tied rope from the tent's peak to the tree's low branch. Gareth threw blankets over the line and pinned the corners with stones. The calf tugged a spare tarp into place, bumping Gareth's leg every time he stood still. A wide awning grew between tent and tree, roofed in wool, lit by the golden pods overhead. The tall traveler carried out chairs. The woman spread the child's coat by the warm lantern. Slowly the small tent became a large shelter, half canvas and half open sky, held up by rope and stubbornness. Gareth passed peanuts around the wider circle. Five became more; a few more cold walkers found the light and came in. Nobody was turned away. The calf fell asleep against the tree, snoring. By dawn the frost melted off the blankets. Gareth stood in the middle of his stretched-out shelter and understood something he'd missed for years. He had always waited to own a tent big enough. That was backward. "The tent isn't the size of the tent," he told Mabel. "It's whatever we build the night someone shows up." Mabel wound her rope back into a coil and tossed it to him. "Keep it handy," she said. "Word travels. Tomorrow there'll be more." Gareth caught the rope. She was right, and now he was glad of it.