"No, no, of course not. It all just sort of happened — a multi-billion-dollar medical procedure."

He shook his head. "I should have known you wouldn’t understand."

"If you want understanding, go to a support group. There must be one for people like you."

"Oh, yeah. Sure. They’re meeting right now, in Vienna. I can’t afford to go there. I am — I worked it out — I am four orders of magnitude poorer than the next poorest person who has undergone this process. For every single dollar I’ve got, they’ve each got ten thousand dollars. That’s not being in the same solar system, Lenore."

"Don’t snap at me. I haven’t done anything wrong here."

He took a deep breath. "You’re right. I’m sorry. It’s just that I don’t know what to do, and… and I don’t want to lose you. I really do care about you; I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you. And I don’t know what I’m doing, but I do know this: the only times of late I’ve been happy — the only times — are when I’m with you."

"There must be somebody else who—"

"There’s no one. My friends — what few I have who are still alive — they don’t understand. And my kids—"

"Oh, crap. I hadn’t thought about that. You’ve got kids!"

In for a penny, in for a pound. "And grandkids. But my son is fifty-five and my daughter is about to turn fifty. I can’t expect them to understand a parent half their age."

"This is crazy," she said.

"We can work it out."

"Are you nuts? You’re married. You’re sixty years older than me. You’ve got kids.

You’ve got grandkids. And — God, you must be retired, right? You don’t even have a job."

"I’ve got a pension."

"A pension! Jesus."

"This doesn’t have to change anything," he said.

"Are you out of your fucking mind?"

"Lenore, please—"

"Get your clothes," she snapped.

"Pardon?"

"Get your clothes, and get the hell out!"

It had been months since Don had seen his grandchildren. He missed them, but he’d been avoiding contact, having no idea how to explain what had happened to him.

But, finally, there was no choice. Today, Thursday, September 10, was Emily’s fiftieth birthday, and just as attendance for everyone else had been mandatory at Don and Sarah’s anniversary party, so his attendance was non-negotiable as his daughter reached the half-century mark.

The party was being held at Emily’s house in Scarborough, about an hour away, but an easy journey on the 407. They had Gunter drive them. Don was happy about that.

He would have felt silly being driven about by a woman who looked like his grandmother; he still hadn’t gotten his license renewed. He’d be required to attend the mandatory driver-safety lectures with a group of other people who were over eighty, and, although the examiner had the power to waive the actual in-car test, Don would still need to endure the gawks from the licensing staff and, even worse, from the old people who looked old, many of whom would doubtless resent that he’d managed to forestall the fate that the rest of them would face in the next few years.

When they pulled into the driveway of the house — a large home that almost completely filled its lot — Don hopped out of the rear and ran around to help Sarah get out of the front passenger’s seat. And then, with him cradling her elbow to guide her up the driveway, they went to the front door, leaving Gunter in the car, placidly looking out at the tiny strip of lawn. Carl and company were already here, but he’d parked his car on the street, leaving the driveway, and the shorter walk, for his parents.

Although the kids’ biometrics were programmed into Don and Sarah’s house, the reverse had never been the case, and so Don rang the doorbell. Emily appeared at once, looking out at them with apprehension on her face, and she hustled them indoors, glancing furtively back, as if concerned that her neighbors had seen the spectacle of her ancient mother arriving on the arm of some strange young man.

He tried to put that out of his mind, and managed the heartiest tone he could.

"Happy birthday, Em!"

Sarah hugged Emily, and, as she did every year, she said, with a smile, "I remember precisely where I was when you were born."

"Hi," said Emily. Don sort of expected "Mom and Dad" to be appended to the greeting; the upward lilt to Emily’s "hi" seemed to demand it. But she couldn’t say the former without having to also give voice to the latter — and he hadn’t heard either of his children refer to him as Dad since the rollback.

This house, like Don and Sarah’s own, had stairs leading up from an entryway. Emily took her mother’s cane and helped her climb them, and Don followed.

"Grandma!" shouted Cassie, who was wearing a pink floral-print dress and had her wispy blond hair tied into pigtails with pink ribbons. She came rushing over, and Sarah bent down as much as she could to hug her. When she released Cassie, the little girl then looked at Don without a trace of recognition on her face.

Carl bent down and picked his daughter up, balancing her in a crooked set of arms, the way one might to let a child examine a painting in a museum. "Cassie," said Carl, "this is your grandfather."

Don saw Cassie’s little brow furrow. She had an arm around Carl’s neck, and she pulled herself closer to him. "Grandpa Marcynuk ?" she said, sounding very unsure.

Don felt his heart sink. Gus Marcynuk was Cassie’s mother’s father; he lived in Winnipeg, and hadn’t been in Toronto for years.

"No, honey," said Carl. "This is Grandpa Halifax."

Cassie scrunched her face up even more tightly and looked at her daddy as if to gauge his expression and see if he was playing some trick. But his face was serious.

"No, it’s not," Cassie said, shaking her head so that the pigtails bounced. "Grandpa Halifax is old."

Don tried to smile as much as he could. "Honest, cupcake, it’s really me."

She tilted her head. Although his voice had changed somewhat, she should still recognize it. "What happened to your wrinkles?"

"They’re gone."

Cassie rolled her blue eyes in a way that said he was stating the obvious. He went on. "There’s a process," he said, but then he halted. "Process," "procedure," "technique," "treatment" — all the words he’d use in describing this to an adult would be lost on a four-year-old. "I went to see a doctor," Don said, "and he made me young again."

Cassie’s eyes were wide. "Can they do that?"

He lifted his shoulders a bit. "Yup."

Cassie looked at Sarah and then back at Don. "What about Grandma? Is she going to get young, too?"

Don opened his mouth to reply, but Sarah beat him to it. "No, dear."

"Why not? Do you like being all wrinkly?"

"Cassie!" exclaimed Carl.

But Sarah didn’t take offense. "I’ve earned every one of them," she said. Sarah obviously saw the puzzled expression on Cassie’s face, so she went on. "No, dear, I don’t. But the process that worked on your grandfather didn’t work for me."

Don watched Cassie nod; perhaps he’d underestimated what little kids could grasp.

"That’s sad," Cassie said.

Sarah nodded back at her, conceding that.

Cassie turned her attention to her father. "Grandpa looks younger than you do," she said. Carl winced. "When I get old, will they be able to make me young again?"

Don could see that his son was about to respond in the negative; he’d moved his head to the left, ready to shake it. But that wasn’t the correct answer. "Yes," said Don. "They will." The process was bound to be cheap and common by the time his granddaughter needed it, and that thought pleased Don.

Carl looked as though he was reaching his limit for holding Cassie. He bent down, setting her on the ground. But then Don crouched low, and turned his back to her.