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One day, he saw an article in the newspaper about an upcoming high-school reunion, and on the night of the reunion he went to the hotel and joined the crowd. His name wasn't on the invitation list, but it was a big class and he had done his research. He convinced the Reunions Inc. staff workers at the door that he should have been on the list, paid his hundred bucks, and joined the group. He sat alone that night, rarely speaking to anyone, but nonetheless enjoying the almost tangible strands of memories and feelings that connected the people in the room. Since then he had hacked his way into the Reunions Inc. computers by using the power company's automated billing links to those systems. He did the same with the three other firms that ran reunions in the cities near him. Now his name always appeared on the right lists.
    He put his wallet in his jacket pocket and checked his hair in the mirror over the dresser. That first reunion had been more than three months ago. On the wall next to the mirror were class photos from the four other reunions he had since attended. He was in each of them, always standing in the second row on the right side, a good spot but not one so important that anyone else cared to have it. He smiled in anticipation of tonight's party, his sixth reunion. He took down a Time picture of the first astronaut reunion and put it in the top drawer of his dresser, to make a space for his next class photo.

    The parking lot was already crowded when he arrived. He liked parking fairly near the entrance, which meant squeezing his Prius into a space partially occupied by a Winnebago with a vanity plate that read
    "Deacon" and a huge, homemade "Patriots" banner hanging from its side. A smiling woman whose badge marked her as a Reunions Inc. staffer ran her finger down a sheet of paper when he arrived at the sign-in table. "Tom Walters, Tom Walters. Let me see. Here it is. One ticket, not prepaid?"
    "Yes, that's right." He forced himself to smile back. "I'm not married." She flashed him a smile and nodded toward another woman seated behind the rows of badges lining the table in front of her. "Lindy?"
    The seated woman scanned the badges and came up with one with no photo, just Tom's name printed on it in large block letters. Her badge showed a younger version of herself wearing a cheerleader outfit and smiling brightly, plus the name "Lindy Bishop." She smiled at him, a smile every bit as bright as the one in the photo, her beauty barely touched by the intervening two decades, and handed him his badge.
    "Sorry there's no photo. You must not have been in the Peterson annual."
    "I was sick the days they took those photos." He handed her the money and took his badge. She smiled again. "Don't feel bad, that happens to lots of people. Have a nice time." Tom thanked her, grateful for the minor kindness of her words, and pulled the lanyard holding his badge over his head. He always wore the same clothes to reunions: gray pants, blue blazer, pale blue shirt, blue striped tie. Safe, look-like-half-the-other-men clothes, clothes guaranteed not to stand out. He stepped past the registration table into the rear of the hall. He liked arriving about a half hour late, in time for the photos but late enough that the drinkers determined to load up for the evening would be sure to have kicked off the party. This room bubbled with chatter and laughter, clumps of people randomly sprayed among the openings in the dinner tables, a few couples sitting and nervously checking out the groups, here and there individuals looking sideways and over the edges of drinks, hoping for friends or at least acquaintances to yank them into the fray.
    He took a step forward, then stopped as he felt a hand clamp down on his shoulder from behind.
    "Hey, I don't remember you."
    Tom turned around. The man who had grabbed him was tall and thick, with a thick neck, thicker chest, and still thicker waist. Red streaks lined eyes set deeply in a tan, acne-scarred face