The Bug That Almost Stopped Christmas
Santa Claus was not prepared for 2020.
He had seen wars, plagues, the invention of fruitcake—nothing fazed him. But when the Council of Legendary Figures held their emergency Zoom (yes, even they had Zoom now), the news hit like a sled into a brick wall.
“Non-essential travel banned in 73% of countries,” the Easter Bunny read from his screen, ears drooping. “Physical distancing, two meters minimum. Masks mandatory. And children are doing… virtual school? Whatever that is.”
Tooth Fairy kept flickering in and out—her Wi-Fi was terrible under pillows these days.
Santa muted himself, stared at the Naughty/Nice dashboard, and watched the Nice column climb higher than ever before. Kids were stuck inside, drawing him thank-you pictures, leaving out hand sanitizer instead of cookies because “Mrs. Claus is old and we don’t want her to get sick.”
He felt something tighten in his ancient chest.
That night he called the elves into the Great Hall.
“We’re not cancelling Christmas,” he said flatly.
The head elf, Bernard, raised a cautious hand. “Sir, the sleigh’s contrail has been classified as an aerosol risk in Norway.”
Santa took off his spectacles and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Then we adapt.”
And they did.
First, the workshop became a Level-4 biosafety lab overnight. Elves in full PPE stitched masks into the lining of every stocking. Toys were dipped in hospital-grade disinfectant that smelled faintly of peppermint. Any doll that coughed was immediately quarantined.
Second, the reindeer. Dasher tested positive for something called “reindeer norovirus” after licking a runway in Milan. They all got swapped to the B-team: Karen, Zoomer, Dave, and six others who’d been in the reserves since 1823. Rapid tests were done with candy-cane swabs.
Third, the big one: the delivery system.
No chimneys this year. Too much risk of fomite transmission.
Instead, Santa partnered with the only organization still moving faster than him: Amazon.
Jeff Bezos himself took the call.
“Nick, buddy,” Jeff said, floating in a zero-G office that definitely wasn’t on Earth, “we can drop-ship 94% of the list. But the personal touch—that’s still you.”
So they built the Bubble Sled.
It looked like a snow globe on runners: a perfect, shimmering sphere of positive pressure around Santa and the seat. HEPA filters hummed like a choir of angry bees. UV-C lights bathed everything in purple. The dashboard had a Zoom tile permanently open to Mrs. Claus, who’d become the mission control queen.
December 24th, 8:00 p.m. North Pole time.
Santa climbed in wearing a red hazmat suit trimmed in white fur, beard tucked neatly into an N95 printed with tiny reindeer. He looked like a jolly astronaut.
“Contact tracing enabled,” Bernard said, tapping keys. “If you get within six feet of anyone awake, the suit auto-ejects glitter. Highly visible. Highly embarrassing.”
Santa rolled his eyes. “I haven’t been caught since 1968. I’m not starting now.”
Liftoff was silent—no hoofbeats on rooftops, just the soft hum of anti-grav boosters (an early gift from a certain space billionaire).
First stop: Brooklyn, 2:14 a.m.
Apartment 4B. Single mom working double shifts as a nurse, asleep on the couch still in scrubs. Her seven-year-old, Amara, had asked for “anything that makes noise so the quiet isn’t so loud.”
Santa materialized on the fire escape—the Bubble Sled hovered politely outside the window like a friendly UFO. He scanned the QR code the elves had taped to the glass weeks earlier (opt-in delivery, of course). Window unlocked itself. He floated in.
The gift: a bright red karaoke microphone that projected constellations on the ceiling when you sang. He set it under the tiny tree, added a box of cookies marked “Already Sanitized—Love, Mrs. C.”
As he turned to leave, Amara stirred.
Santa froze.
The girl sat up, rubbed her eyes, and whispered, “Are you really him?”
He couldn’t lie to a child. Never could.
He pressed a gloved finger to his mask where his mouth would be. Shhh.
She nodded solemnly, then pointed to her mom’s exhausted face. “She believes in you too. She just forgets to say it out loud.”
Santa’s eyes crinkled above the mask—the 2020 version of his famous twinkling smile. He reached into the quarantine pouch and pulled out one extra gift: a small silver bell engraved Thank You. He set it gently on the nurse’s pillow.
Then he was gone, bubble popping silently into the night.
Chicago. Reykjavík. Sydney. Lagos.
In Mumbai he left a tablet loaded with every Disney movie (pre-approved by frantic parents who’d run out of screen-time guilt months ago).
In rural Alberta he dropped a sled and a note that read: Snow is still free. Use it.
In a hospital ward in São Paulo, he left teddy bears wearing tiny masks for kids who wouldn’t see their families this year.
By 4:00 a.m. North Pole time, the Nice list was green across the board.
Santa guided the Bubble Sled to the final stop: a rooftop in Seattle where a boy named Eli had left a letter months earlier.
Dear Santa, My grandma died in March. We couldn’t have a funeral. Mom says you’re not real but I think you are. If you are, can you just… wave at the window so I know she made it to heaven? That’s all I want.
Santa landed softly. The bubble shimmered under Christmas lights.
Inside, Eli was awake, nose pressed to the glass.
Santa stepped out—protocol be damned for ten seconds—and raised one gloved hand.
The boy’s eyes went wide. He raised his own hand, small fingers splayed against the cold pane.
Santa nodded once. Slowly. Seriously.
Then he pointed upward, toward the stars, and mouthed a single word Eli would never forget:
“She’s there.”
Eli smiled so big his cheeks hurt.
Santa climbed back into the bubble. As the sled lifted, he watched the boy run to wake his mom, pointing frantically at the sky.
Mrs. Claus’s voice crackled over comms. “You’re late, Nicholas.”
“Worth it,” he answered, voice thick.
The Bubble Sled shot north, leaving a trail of sanitized sparkle across a sleeping, weary world.
Back at the Pole, the elves cheered from behind plexiglass as he stepped out, suit auto-doffing in a cloud of peppermint steam.
Bernard handed him a mug of cocoa. “Any close calls?”
Santa took a long sip. “Only the ones that mattered.”
Outside, the Northern Lights danced brighter than anyone could remember, like the sky itself was exhaling after holding its breath for a very long year.
Christmas 2020 wasn’t perfect.
But it still came.
Because some things—even a virus—can’t stop a man in a red hazmat suit who refuses to let hope get cancelled.