Greg wanted the trophy on the mantle before the midnight parade. He paced the crooked rooms of their house, a twisted storybook place with moons carved into every shutter. Felicity sat at her old sewing machine, needle ticking, a raccoon curled around the iron leg. She stitched the last patch onto her Sally dress. In two weeks the costume contest crowned a winner, and Greg meant for that winner to be them. "The judges remember whoever walks in first," he said. "We could go early. Enter half-finished. Nobody checks the hem." Felicity didn't look up. "They check the hem." She pulled the thread taut. The dress hung beside her on a black form, patchwork glowing against the dark fabric. She had spent forty hours on it. Greg had spent none, and he knew it. "You painted faster than this," he said, then wished he hadn't. She had set her brushes down two years ago. He was proud she used to paint. He never understood why she stopped. Felicity finally lifted her head. "Sally waits to be seen. You can't rush being seen." She tied off the knot and bit the thread. The machine went quiet. Greg crouched by the two cats. The black one wore a tiny Jack suit, pinstripes and bone buttons. The other wore patchwork like the dress, stitched scraps across her back. "They're ready," he said. "They've been ready for days." The Sally cat yawned. The Jack cat swatted a loose thread. He carried Felicity a cappuccino, foam shaped into a grinning skull. She took it with both hands. "You made me coffee instead of arguing. That's growth." "I want the mantle," Greg said. "But I want you to want it too. Not just the trophy. The whole night." Felicity set the cup down. She stood and held the dress against herself. In the lamp light the patches looked less like scraps and more like a map of every piece she'd gathered. "The contest is small," she said. "A room and a trophy. I keep thinking of something bigger." "Bigger how." "A parade. Candles. Every stranger in a costume following behind us through town at midnight." She said it quietly, the way she used to talk about paintings she never finished. Greg felt the trophy shrink in his mind. He had wanted a prize for the shelf. She had just described something no shelf could hold. "Then we wait," he said. "Two more weeks. We do it right." She kissed him, quick and sure. "Right," she said. The agreement settled between them, and Greg understood the problem he had just traded for. He no longer wanted to win a room. He wanted to lead a town. And he had no idea how two costumes and two cats turned a contest into a parade.