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She looks around the table like we've transformed into some kind of boardroom.

"You're selling trees. The resort up the mountain is selling an experience. And those are wildly different products at wildly different prices."

Dad frowns. "But people buy trees. That's the business."

"People bought trees. Now they buy memories with a tree attached." She turns to me. "Miles, remember the empty market hut at the resort? Marlene's stall, closed for the season?"

I nod. "Yeah. The one next to Zoey's."

"That one. If Darcy and Big Mike let us use it, the farm could promote itself, perhaps even run a resort shuttle out here. A private tour through the rows of Christmas trees. Families could choose their own tree, get photographs in the snow, drink cider and eat marshmallows at the bonfire. Then top it all off with premium delivery back to the resort." She counts it off on her fingers. "That's the whole package, and every single piece of it already exists. The trees exist. The bonfire exists. Susan, your cider could start a damn riot."

"It's the cloves," Mom says faintly.

The idea catches slowly, the way fires do.

"Who staffs it?" Dad asks. "We're stretched thin as it is."

"You make it work, small steps." Audrey grins beneath my father's weary gaze. "One family at a time to start, which means one Stratton at a time. Preferably the one with the biggest smile."

"That's me," Hunter says quickly, but his voice has changed—less fight, more math. "But we can't afford to buy a shuttle van. We can't afford another gamble, Audrey. That's the whole problem."

"You're not gambling. The roadside hut already exists. The resort already runs airport transfers with luxury vans… So we negotiate to use one. The trees—" she gestures out the window at ten thousand firs all covered in snow, "—I feel confident about the trees."

Will raises his hand. "I'd like to volunteer Miles for the promotional photos. He looks the best shirtless."

"Die quietly," I tell him.

"Honestly," Audrey says, studying all three of us with the detachment of a livestock judge, "you all look good shirtless. It's a marketing asset."

The table erupts as Hunter high-fives Will. Mom laughs into her tea.

I stare at the woman I slept with last night openly appraising my brothers' torsos and contemplate homicide for the second time before nine a.m.

But underneath the noise, something better is happening.

They're talking.

Dad starts asking about booking systems. Hunter is sketching shuttle timing on a napkin. Mom is planning cider quantities.

For the past two fucking years, every farm conversation has ended the same way. With everyone quietly waiting for my hockey money to arrive like a helicopter rescue.

Now Hunter's arguing operations, Will's listing everything, and my parents are trading forty years of knowledge across the table.

Audrey is just stitching it all together into something people would pay to remember.

But I watch her carefully.

Because I know exactly how badly this farm can punish optimism, and I'll be damned if its failures land on her shoulders.

It's one idea. One empty hut. One trial.

But my family is talking sense, and that hasn't happened in a long, long time.

When it's finally time to leave, Mom wraps the cinnamon bread Audrey demolished in enough foil to survive an avalanche, then hugs her hard at the front door.

Dad shakes her hand like she's closing a deal. "Thank you, Audrey. Seriously. You've given us some things to think about."

"Quick question," Hunter says, leaning on the truck as I start the engine to warm up. "Are you returning Miles after Christmas, or should the family organize a permanent collection service?"