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the young woman had taken their drink order—two decaf coffees—Don settled back against the soft leather upholstery. "So," he said, looking across at his wife, the crags in her face highlighted by the dancing firelight, "what do you think?"
    "It's an incredible offer."
    "That it is," he said, frowning. "But..."
    He trailed off as the waiter appeared, a tall black man of about fifty, dressed in a tuxedo. He handed a menu printed on parchment-like paper bound in leather covers to Sarah, then gave one to Don. He squinted at it. Although this restaurant doubtless had lots of older patrons—they'd passed several on the way to the table—anyone who dined here regularly probably could afford new eyes, and—
    "Hey," he said, looking up. "There are no prices."
    "Of course not, sir," said the waiter. He had a Haitian accent. "You are Mr. McGavin's guests. Please order whatever you wish."
    "Give us a moment," said Don.
    "Absolutely, sir," said the waiter, and he disappeared.
    "What McGavin's offering is..." started Don, then he trailed off. "It's—I don't know—it's crazy."
    "Crazy," repeated Sarah, lobbing the word back at him.
    "I mean," he said, "when I was young, I thought I'd live forever, but..."
    "But you'd made your peace with the idea that..."
    "That I was going to die soon?" he said, lifting his eyebrows. "I'm not afraid of the D-word. And, yes, I guess I had made my peace with that, as much as anyone does. Remember when Ivan Krehmer was in town last fall? My old buddy from back in the day? We had coffee, and, well, we both knew it was the last time we'd ever see or even speak to each other. We talked about our lives, our careers, our kids and grandkids. It was a..." He sought a phrase; found it: "A final accounting."
    She nodded. "So often, these last few years, I've thought, 'Well, that's the last time I'll visit this place.' " She looked out at the other diners. "It's not even all been sad. There are plenty of times I've thought, 'Thank God I'll never have to do that again.' Getting my passport renewed, some of those medical tests they make you have every five years. Stuff like that."
    He was about to reply when the waiter reappeared. "Have we decided yet?"
    Not by a long shot , Don thought.
    "We need more time," Sarah said. The waiter dipped his head respectfully and vanished again.
    More time , thought Don. That's what it was all about, suddenly having more time. "So, so he's talking about, what, rejuvenating you thirty-eight years, so you'll still be around when the next reply is received?"
    "Rejuvenating us ," said Sarah, firmly—or, at least, in what he knew was supposed to be a firm tone; the quaver never quite left her voice these days. "And, really, there's no need to stop at that. That would only take us back to being fifty or so, after all." She paused, took a moment to gather her thoughts. "I remember reading about this. They say they can regress you to any point after your body stopped growing. You can't go back before puberty, and you probably shouldn't go back much earlier than twenty-five, before wisdom teeth have erupted and the bones of the skull have totally fused."
    "Twenty-five," said Don, tasting the number, imagining it. "And then you'd age forward again, at the normal rate?"
    She nodded. "Which would give us enough time to receive two more replies from..." She lowered her voice, perhaps surprised to find herself adopting McGavin's term. "From my pen pal."
    He was about to object that Sarah would be over a hundred and sixty by the time two more replies could be received—but, then again, that would only be her chronological age; she'd be just a hundred physically. He shook his head, feeling woozy, disoriented. Just a hundred!
    "You seem to know a lot about this," he said.
    She tipped her head to one side. "I read a few of the articles when the procedure was announced. Idle curiosity."
    He narrowed his eyes. "Was that all?"
    "Sure. Of course."
    "I've never even thought about living to be over a