The text message from Chloe had been characteristically brief: Christmas Eve emergency protocol initiated. Be at my door at 1900 hours. Dress comfortably. Check the network for entry credentials. ​You arrive outside Apartment 3B right on time. You pull out your phone, dreading what you’re about to see in the Wi-Fi settings. ​And there it is, glowing with five bars of demanding signal: YELL_SANTA_LIKE_YOUR_LIFE_DEPENDS_ON_IT. ​You look up and down the empty hallway. It’s Christmas Eve; surely everyone is out visiting family or watching movies. You take a deep breath, channel your inner eight-year-old, and bellow at the top of your lungs: ​SANTA! ​The sound barely has time to echo before the door swings open with dramatic speed.
​Chloe stands there, a vision of chaotic holiday enforcement. She looks exactly like she stepped out of a festive oil painting. She’s wearing a vibrant green felt elf tunic trimmed with red zig-zags and actual brass jingle bells that chime when she moves. A wide black belt with a hefty gold buckle cinches her waist, and beneath the tunic, her arms and legs are covered in candy-cane red-and-white stripes. A matching green elf hat sits precariously on top of her massive tangle of curly ginger hair.
​Her freckled face is split in a wide, mischievous grin as she eyes you up and down. ​Solid six out of ten, she judges, stepping aside and gesturing with a bare hand for you to enter. Good volume, poor commitment to the belief system. But it'll do.