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Meryl overhead us as she was pouring coffee and said she thought he had been in the news. Not in a bad way, mind you. But in that way that leaves just the vaguest of impressions. This went on each time she topped off the coffee, long after we were on to other topics, until finally we were putting on our coats when she arrived to clear away the plates. Soon I was at the library, typing Elliot Winston into the computer.

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The headlines brought back what had happened:. The twins had been left in the doorway behind St. Alphonsus Catholic Church, a few weeks before Christmas. Two little girls, both healthy, tucked in a basket that was covered by a patchwork blanket. Each wore only a diaper and a matching necklace, two halves of a heart-shaped locket that hung from a golden chain. The story was everywhere in the news. The girls picked up names: Hope and Grace. The janitor was hailed as a hero.

He had even adopted one ofthe girls, but before the paperwork was finalized on the second, there was a column questioning whether he could support them both on his salary, then a story about an old shoplifting conviction, then whispers about why a single man wanted two little girls. That was the end when it came to public opinion. The hero had fallen, no room for redemption. In the end, the twins were separated not by design, but by the janitor's decision to leave behind the spotlight he never sought. When the newspaper did a one-year anniversary story, he refused to comment.

A few weeks back, a TV station had done a five-year piece, but it was mostly file footage. The anchor said the man couldn't be found. On Christmas Eve, I always wore my Santa coat and hat to the store, hoping to spur some last-minute charity. Bell ringing ended at 6 p.


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By that point, my knees ached and, well, no one wanted to see Santa in a toy store when he should have been at the North Pole getting the reindeer ready. I went to the back room, pulled on my overcoat, tucked the scratchy white beard in my pocket and went back out to the sales floor. I went up and down the aisles, picking out boxes of games and puzzles, dolls and stuffed animals, everything I imagined that little girl was dreaming about.

Soon I was driving to Wilson Street, a stack of packages — all gift-wrapped — on the seat next to me. I found the address, parked a few doors down and walked back to the house. A tattered wreath hung in the unlit doorway. The steps were wobbly, the railing loose. I slid the packages next to the door, and then stepped away. As I did, there was a loud creak and the porch light clicked on. By the time the door opened, I had slipped between the houses and peered around the corner. The little girl stepped out, her arms full with her own packages. She carried them to a car on the street below, then came back up the steps.

The man was just locking the door, when I heard the girl call out. The man said something I couldn't make out and the girl picked them up. They carried them to the car and drove away into the darkness. The two went inside and I watched their shadows through the window, as they exchanged greetings with the host. There was a large gathering inside, but somehow the building held an air of sadness, like a Christmas tree with a set of lights out. I slipped down in the front seat, trying not to be noticed, when there was a rapping on the windshield.

My heart jumped and my mind reached for an excuse as I rolled down the window. A man gestured to the house. I reached up and was surprised to find I still had the Santa hat on. Reluctantly, I got out of the car. I took off the overcoat, crumpled some newspapers, slipped them inside the Santa suit and pulled on the beard. I waited in the kitchen, listening to the din from the living room, children laughing and shouting, holiday music on the radio, the clambering of small feet on the wooden stairs. From amid it all, I could pick out one conversation clearly.

It was the man from the store. He told of how the girl had seen the story on the TV news, recognized his face, put it all together and now was full of questions that had no answers — about her mother, about her sister, about why he didn't fight to keep them together. That part had weighed on him for all these years, a guilt he could not wish away.

You could tell the other man was affected as much as I was. After a moment, he said aloud what I was thinking: "Sounds like she is just looking for a little goodness herself. I was soon handed a bag and led into the living room by the man who had brought me inside. I could tell he was on the other end of the conversation I had overheard, as there was a catch in his throat as he welcomed everyone to the Farmington Social Services annual holiday party for children in foster care.

I looked around at the faces, my heart breaking with each one. I knew my role now.

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I had to make them happy, to find a little goodness for each one. I was given a seat next to a tree that scraped the ceiling, its branches flocked with snow and lit by those fat, old-fashioned bulbs. The children crowded in, some on their tiptoes. Soon, they were playing everywhere — cuddling dolls, doing puzzles, zooming toy cars across the floor and into the piles of crumpled paper and ribbons. I spotted the girl from the store standing against the wall, taking it all in.

I thought about what to say to her, how to lift her spirits, but no words came. Finally, there was one child left. I reached into the bag and felt around The girl realized what was happening. Her lower lip began to tremble and she buried her head in my lap. I tried to comfort her, but could not.

The girl from the store stepped forward. She lifted a necklace over her head and handed it to me, gesturing at the girl who was in tears. I looked closely at the necklace. The golden chain was a series of fine links, with an oversize heart at the end.

At the edge of the heart, there was a hinge, but nothing attached to it. I looked back at the girl.


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She nodded. In a moment, she was back, holding up a second locket, the perfect match of the first. It gleamed in the lights of the tree.


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I looked at the two girls, one with long hair, the other cut short. I mean, have I mentioned that they got Shohreh Aghdashloo? In the meantime, you can stream the whole first season on Amazon Prime. You can read my full coverage of season one here. The Shannara Chronicles — MTV My love for this show is likely an unpopular opinion, but I really did think that it was—overall—surprisingly decent.

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And sure, the show has some problematic tendencies, such as casually adding in some attempted rape or senselessly killing minor characters for drama. You can read my season one posts here. Or just read my season six stuff. Imagine my surprise when it turned out to be a pretty decent show after all. In it, Colin Farrell plays a man in a dystopian near-future society where all adults must be paired off and married or else they will be turned into an animal of their choice.

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I love every sumptuous detail of this movie from start to finish. Every frame of the film is stunning, with a gorgeous naturalistic quality that makes the fairy tale world seem real and lived in. The interconnected stories mirror and echo each other in strange and unexpected ways that provide plenty of material for dissection and analysis, but the film can also just be enjoyed simply as a viscerally affecting experience.

When it got poor reviews, I just sort of wrote it off altogether, and I only came back to it late in the year when I stumbled across it on Amazon Prime. Stewart and Hoult turn in fine performances, and they have a good chemistry that sells their romance well. Everything in the movie is sleek and clean in a way that is rather charmingly retro, putting me in mind of classic sci-fi stories of this type.

You can read my full review here. I hope they make a dozen sequels. I wrote a full review of this one when I saw it.