"Do you want to have kids of your own?" he asked.

"Oh, yeah. Definitely."

"How soon?"

She leaned her head against his shoulder. Her hair was blowing a bit in the breeze, occasionally gently slapping his cheek. "Oh, I don’t know. By the time I’m thirty, I suppose. I know that’s a long time from now, but…"

She trailed off, but he found himself shaking his head. Five years would go by like that; it seemed only yesterday he’d been in his seventies. Hell, it hardly seemed that long ago that he’d been in his sixties. The years just fly by, and—

And he wondered if that would still be true. He’d certainly experienced the phenomenon of time seeming to pass more quickly as he’d gotten older, and he’d read the pop-psychology explanation for it: that, when you’re a kid of ten, each year is a whopping ten percent of your life to date, and so seems ponderously long, but by the time you’re fifty, each year is just two percent of your life, and so passes in the wink of an eye. He wondered what would happen to his time sense now that he was young again. He’d be one of the first people ever to get to test the validity of the standard explanation.

Lenore said nothing more; she just looked out at the lake. Still, it was ironic, he realized. She was thinking farther into the future than he was. But he’d thought he was done with the future, and, although he knew that poem, too, he hadn’t planned on raging against the dying of the light…

In five years, Lenore would likely have a Ph.D., and be well on her way in her career.

And in five years, Sarah would probably be…

He hated to think about it, but it was all but inevitable. By 2053, Sarah would almost certainly be gone, and he’d—

He’d be alone. Unless—

Unless he…

Unless he found somebody else.

But he’d seen at the grad students’ wing night just how vapid most twenty-five-year-olds were. People who shared his apparent physical age would never appeal to him intellectually, emotionally. Lenore, somehow, was different, and—

And it was way too soon to go further with this conversation, but the reality was clear: his future with Lenore, or, he imagined, with just about any woman who was as young as he looked, would depend on his being willing to be a father again.

But, God, to have more kids! Could he face late-night feedings, and changing diapers, and being a disciplinarian?

And yet…

And yet perhaps people would forgive him his transgressions if someday he did start a second family. He knew that no matter how logical it might be for him to want the company of someone so much younger than Sarah, in the eyes of his friends and family that would be seen as tawdry, thinking with his dick instead of his brain. But if they thought his desire was to be a father again, well, then maybe that wasn’t quite so bad.

In this age of open sexuality online and off, it was probably no longer true, but in Don’s day, many men he knew had had a favorite Playboy Playmate, and his had been Vicki Smith, or, at least, that had been the name he’d first encountered the five-foot-eleven, Rubenesque Texan under, when she was Miss May 1992. But by the time she’d been named Playmate of the Year in 1993, she’d changed her stage name to Anna Nicole Smith. And she became even more famous when, at twenty-six, she married a billionaire who was almost ninety.

That’s the comparison people of his generation would make, he knew. Except that he wasn’t a billionaire, although he’d gotten what that crazed old coot doubtless would have traded his entire fortune for. And it was he, not the woman, who was fake. Anna Nicole Smith had had an A-cup before breast implants pushed her three letters down the alphabet. But Lenore was natural — well, as natural as anyone these days. It was Don who’d had himself remade, although somehow, at least to him, gene therapy and the lengthening of telomeres seemed less creepy than having your chest carved open and bags of silicone shoved inside.

Still, an eighty-seven-year-old man and a twenty-five-year-old woman! The things people would say! But if he eventually had more kids, became a dad to little ones again, well, then, that was good and normal and right, and maybe everyone would understand, everyone would forgive.

Of course, that was no reason to become a father, but, hell, he hadn’t given it any thought the first time; it hadn’t taken any justification. It had just seemed the most natural thing in the world when he and Sarah had gotten married.

Three ducks landed on the lake, small wakes appearing behind them. Lenore snuggled closer to Don. "It’s such a beautiful day," she said.

He nodded, and stroked her shoulder gently, wondering what the future might hold.

Don had had a truly wonderful time both down at the Island and afterwards, back at Lenore’s. But she had a lot of reading to do for a seminar tomorrow, so extricating himself at the end of the day had not been an issue. Sarah, meanwhile, had said she was going to stay in all day — she was still sorting through the mountain of paper records about the first message — and as Don headed toward the subway, he was startled that the answering machine picked up when he tried to call his house. Of course, Sarah’s hearing wasn’t what it used to be; she might simply have not heard the phone ringing, or she might be out, or—

"Where is Sarah’s datacom?" he said to his own unit.

"At home," the device replied, after connecting with its twin. "On her nightstand."

Don felt himself frowning; she wouldn’t have gone out without it, and he’d tried now calling both her datacom and their landline household phone. Something was wrong; he just knew it.

He started jogging toward St. George subway station; the parts between here and that station, and between his home station of North York Centre and his front door, were the only segments of the journey he could speed up. The rest would happen at what he was sure would seem the snail’s pace of the Toronto Transit Commission’s trains — taking a taxi all the way up to North York would cost a fortune and would be no faster.

As luck would have it, he got through the turnstile and down the escalator just in time to see the doors close on the eastbound train, and he had to wait an interminable time — this being Sunday evening — for the next one to pull into the station.

His datacom worked just fine down in tunnels, but each time he called, his household phone rang and rang until his own voice — his own previous voice, the thin, weary version of it that sounded so different from the way he currently did — came on, saying, "Hello. Neither Sarah nor I can come to the phone right now…"

Don sat, looking down at the gray, dirty floor, holding his face up with his hands.

Finally, after an eternity, the subway arrived at North York Centre, and he bounded out of the car. He ran up the escalator, through a turnstile, and exited onto Park Home Avenue, which was dark and deserted. He jogged the three blocks to his house, trying once more to call along the way, but to no avail. At last, he opened his front door, and—

She was lying facedown on the scuffed hardwood floor in front of the mirrored closet. "Sarah!"

Her limbs were splayed, and the lightweight summer dress she was wearing had billowed about her like a shroud. It seemed clear that she’d taken a tumble coming down the stairs to the entryway. "Sarah, are you all right?"

She stirred, lifting her head a little.

"No," said Don. "No, no. Don’t move!"

"My leg," she said softly. "My God, you should have heard the snap…"

He’d learned some first aid years ago. "This one?" he said, touching her right leg.

"No. The other one."