Being the deer was always more fun. Maybe it was the thrill of being chased, or the glory of being the protagonist. Or maybe it was just that, when you were the deer, you weren’t “it.” No kid ever wanted to be “it.”
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It was New Year’s Eve, but the house was still dressed up for Christmas; the decorations never came down until sometime in January. Dad always insisted that Christmas wasn’t over at midnight on December 25th, and that there were the Twelve Days of Christmas and all that. I didn’t mind.