I gathered the cord, shook my head, and stood the vacuum upright again. It leaned slightly, like it was reconsidering its life choices. 

“Everyone alive?” I asked. 

Quigley barked once, triumphant. Tigra rolled onto her back, paws tucked, already absolved in her own mind. Wick turned away and hopped onto the couch, his interest in the situation officially concluded. 

I tucked the vacuum back into the closet and closed the door with care. Experience had taught me that unattended cords were simply invitations. 

By the time I turned back, Timmie had appeared in the doorway, glass of iced tea in hand, surveying the room with quiet amusement. 

“Cord again?” they asked. 

“Cord again,” I confirmed. 

Timmie nodded, unfazed, and handed me a second glass. Condensation beaded along the sides as we leaned against the counter and watched the animals settle—Tigra claiming the warmest spot on the rug, Quigley collapsing beside her in exhausted victory, and Wick resuming his post on the couch arm like nothing of note had occurred. 

The tree lights glowed softly. The house finally exhaled. 

We sipped our iced tea and let the moment stretch, the outside world rushing headlong toward the holidays while, inside, everything felt exactly right. 

Because in this house, Christmas doesn’t begin with carols or calendars. 

It starts with chaos, forgiveness… and a very suspicious vacuum cord.