The Irish Santa

He bent down and the little girl flung her arms around him. He shivered, a cold sweat broke on his brow and an uncontrollable tremor seized him.

“You're sick, Santa,” the child said, drawing back. “You've got the flu. Come home with us. Mom will give you Calpol to make you better.”

Mike straightened, stared at the sea of eyes before him and glanced at the priest by his side.

“We can get you help, you know,” the priest said. “We have good programmes right here in the parish.”

 

Roisin's father threw the bag full of cash into the centre aisle. Mike stared at it. The girl tugged at his leg.





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