Meredith's got no sense of strategy. She's competitive, it's true, in play as much as in her erstwhile career, but planning ahead isn't a strength, so while he's making more, she's ducking behind a tree with a snowball cupped in her hands. She bites her lip to keep from laughing and it's a relief even when it bubbles over anyway. Just for a little while, she needs to be anything but serious or worried or thinking of the future when it feels like she's coming up on the finish line, the disappearing act at the beginning of this year hanging over the one about to start. Her luck's just never been good enough to believe in.

For instance, now she looks back over her shoulder and around the trunk to find him closing in on her. Immediately, instinctively, she throws all she's got, brows flying up as she laughs. "I guess I did," she allows, scrambling forward again.