The doll house is draped with sleeping young people . . . sofa, floor, mattress, sleeping bag. Ruckus, thanks to a Christmas miracle or perhaps social exhaustion, dozed sweetly till 7:15, and is still mild-mannered and squinty. Last night's rainstorm has blown through, and today's sunlight is a damp gray-blue--a not-quite mackerel glint, more like the color of a Civil War reenactor's clean but linty uniform, recently unpacked from a cedar chest. The rustiest garbage truck in the world has paused at the stop sign. A beatnik walking three dignified dogs is meandering down the snowy-grassy slope toward the bay. Tom is sitting up in bed drinking coffee and reading a Bolano novel. C'est la vacance en Portland.