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fifty. I've been here for just over sixteen years, so now I'm thirty-four. For most older people, Lizzie, this is a good thing. I imagine it isn't quite as appealing when one is your age."
    Liz takes a moment to absorb Grandma Betty's words. I will never turn sixteen, she thinks. "What happens when I get to zero?" Liz asks.
    "Well, you become a baby again. And when you're seven days old, you and all the other babies are sent down the River, back to Earth to be born anew. It's called the Release."
    "So I'll only be here fifteen years, and then I go back to Earth to start all over again?"
    "You'll be here almost sixteen years," Grandma Betty corrects her, "but basically, yes."
    Liz can't believe how unfair this is. If it isn't bad enough that she died before getting to do anything fun, now she will have to repeat her whole life in reverse until she becomes a stupid, sniveling baby again.
    "So I'll never be an adult?" Liz asks.
    "I wouldn't look at it that way, Liz. Your mind still acquires experience and memories even while your body "
    Liz explodes, "I'LL NEVER GO TO COLLEGE OR GET MARRIED OR GET BIG BOOBS OR
    LIVE ON MY OWN OR FALL IN LOVE OR GET MY DRIVER'S LICENSE OR ANYTHING? I CAN'T BELIEVE THIS!"
    Grandma Betty pulls the car to the side of the road. "You'll see," she says, patting Liz on the hand. "It isn't all that bad."
    "Not all that bad? How the hell could it get any worse? I'm fifteen, and I'm dead. Dead!" For a minute, no one speaks.
    Suddenly, Grandma Betty claps her hands together: "I've just had the most marvelous idea, Elizabeth. You have your learner's permit, right?"
    Liz nods.
    "Why don't you drive us back to the house?"
    Liz nods again. Although she is justifiably upset by the turn of events, she doesn't want to pass up an opportunity to drive. After all, she'll probably never get her driver's license in this stupid place, and who knows how many months until they'll take away her learner's permit, too. Liz opens the passenger door and gets out as Grandma Betty slides across the bench seat to the passenger side.
    "Do you know how to maneuver this kind of transmission? My car's a bit of a dinosaur, I'm afraid,"
    says Grandma Betty.
    "I can do everything except parallel parking and threepoint turns," Liz answers calmly. "We were supposed to cover those next in driver's ed, but unfortunately for me, I croaked."
    The route to Grandma Betty's house is simple enough, and aside from the occasional direction, the ride is silent. Although she has plenty to say, Grandma Betty doesn't want to distract Liz from her driving. Liz isn't in the mood for conversation anyway and she lets her mind wander. Of course, a wandering mind is not always advisable for the recently deceased and is nearly never advisable for the beginning driver.
    Liz thinks about why it took her so long to figure out she was dead. Other people, like Curtis and Thandi, seemed to realize immediately, or soon thereafter. She feels like a real dunce. At school, Liz always prided herself on being a person who caught on quickly, a fast learner. But here was concrete evidence that she is not as fast as she thinks.
    "Elizabeth, darling," says Grandma Betty, "you may want to slow down a bit."
    "Fine," says Liz, glancing at the speedometer, which reads seventy-five miles per hour. She didn't realize she was driving so fast and eases up a bit on the gas pedal.
    How can I be dead? Liz wonders to herself. Aren't I too young to be dead? When dead people are her age, they're usually little kids with cancer or some equally horrible and abstract disease. Dead little kids get free trips and meet world-famous pop stars. She wonders if a cruise and Curtis Jest counted.
    When Liz was a freshman, two seniors had been killed drinking and driving just before the prom.
    The school had given them full-page, full-color tributes in the yearbook. Liz wonders if she will receive such a tribute. Unless her parents pay for it, she doubts it. Both boys had been on the football team,