Harry slept deeply and dreamed of last Christmas Eve. He could feel the icy wind rushing down his throat as he ran and ran and finally, exhausted, arrived at his destination. He reached for the callbox door and attempted to open it, but something was in his hand. It was his police officer’s silver shield. He stared at it as it glistened brightly under the street light. And, as he studied it, he realized there was not a speck of dirt, a piece of grime, or any tarnish on its gleaming face. He picked up the telephone with his other hand, and this time when the sergeant answered – this time – he did not hang up.