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of instant mashed potatoes and Tuna Helper. When she’d turned back to me, aglow with delight, I’d snapped that picture.
    Now it floated in front of me like an angel’s reproach.
    I flung the drink aside and brought my fists down hard enough to splinter the table. The picture of Elise dissolved into another face. Maggie.
    “You asked for that photo last night. Or don’t you remember?”
    I didn’t. I lit a cigarette. Maggie looked impressed. “How’d you get those? Smoking’s illegal.”
    I ignored her.
    “It’s bad for your health,” she added.
    “So’s dying,” I replied. “I got through that okay.”
    “Negative health behaviors accelerate the youthing process. Or haven’t you scanned your dickenjane?”
      I grappled with the remote, trying to turn her off. Instead, the bookshelf reformed into a websquirt. “Hello, Mr. and Mrs. America, and all you ships at sea—let’s go to press!” The announcer’s voice had the archaic, nasal style popular in old movies. In the age of Bogart and Mitchum, it had embodied toughness and cynicism. Now it just sounded like the guy needed to have his adenoids removed. “This is Walter Winchell, to dish the dirt and gab the gossip for all you reborn skirts and shirts. In entertainment, the Beatles’ long-anticipated reunion concert got underway last night.” I perked up. They’d rebuilt Shea Stadium and it was overflowing with thousands of screaming fans. There they were, reborn octogenarians Paul, Ringo, George, and… Pete Best? Lennon hadn’t come back. What a cosmic fucking insult.
    “Unfortunately,” Winchell continued, “the second set came to a tragic halt when Ringo suffered a mild stroke during ‘Get Back.’” On the screen, Ringo stopped drumming, gurgled, and pitched off his stool.
    “Christ,” I said, shutting it off.
    “With the smoking and drinking, you’ve probably youthed two weeks for the one week you’ve been back. Switch from Jack to smack and you could be fifteen in a couple months. Then again, a gun against the soft palate would do the job instantly.”
    “Beat it.”
    “I’m serious. What are you hanging around for, taking up space? C’mon, let’s get this over right now. Free up this place for some Joe who’ll actually use his second chance.”
    My lips curled. “You’re not so clever. Reverse psychology got me a lot of confessions in my day.”
    “But it ain’t your day, Donner. That’s the whole point.”
    I picked up the overturned whiskey bottle. There was still a finger of forgetfulness in it, which I quickly drained. I checked my watch and wobbled to my feet.
    “Where are you going?”
    To find something familiar , I thought.
    But what I said was, “None of your fucking business.”

8
    DONNER
    B rooklyn’s 78th Precinct was a limestone neo-Renaissance police palazzo on the northeast corner of 6th and Bergen. It might’ve looked elegant if there weren’t so many AC units jutting from its windows like tumors. Fifty-some years into the 21st century, the city still hadn’t sprung for central air.
    The cops standing out front wore uniforms that John Dillinger would have recognized. Their thigh-length blue tunics sported square flaps that brass-buttoned across the chest. Their caps were crisp, their white gloves spotless, their shields large and proud and shining.
    I couldn’t help smiling, even after my encounter with their Manhattan brethren. They looked elegant, regal. Cops were the chosen people.
    I crossed the street into the light from the floods mounted under the cornice of the building, my hands relaxed and open at my sides. They watched me. I went slowly up the cement steps past them. Nobody moved to intercept. As I cleared the outer door and stepped into the security vestibule, a light behind a mesh grill flashed and a siren bleeped.
    “Attention. Reborn DNA detected.”
    The room went silent. All eyes slowly swung over to me. I crossed to the desk officer’s station, my footfalls the only sound in