God peels himself upright with obvious effort, and he pats a patch of dirty sand beside him, like she should pull up a seat. Under the tarp is everything he has: some bundles of clothes, some bundles of meat for the fire. An old mattress in patchwork shades of filth. Curled up on it, dead asleep, is a woman with golden hair.

"Make it our Christmas card," he rasps. John Gaius looks as bad as he ever has, which is a fucking feat. He shuts his eyes like he doesn't want to see her looking at it all.