She’d been devastated both times, and although it was ridiculous to try to weigh one tragedy against the other, she remembered what she’d said to Don after the second one: she’d rather have been part of Columbia’s crew than have been aboard Challenger, for the people aboard Columbia died at the end of their mission, on the way home — on the voyage home. They’d lived long enough to see their lifelong dream realized. They’d gone into orbit, had floated in microgravity, and had looked back down on the wonderful, chaotic, hypnotic blue vista of the Earth. But the Challenger astronauts had died within minutes of lifting off, without ever making it into space.

If you have to die, better to die after achieving your goals rather than before. She had lived long enough to see aliens detected, to send a response, and to receive a reply, to engage in a dialogue, however brief. So this was now after. Even if there was a lot that she would have liked to have been part of yet to come, this was still after. This was after so very much. She lifted her stylus to continue writing, and, as she did so, a teardrop fell onto the datacom’s display, magnifying the text beneath.

How does one die in the age of miracle and wonder? Incipient strokes and heart attacks are easily detected and prevented. Cancers are simple to cure, as are Alzheimer’s and pneumonia. Accidents still happen, but when you have a Mozo to look after you, those are rare.

But, still, at some point, the body does wear out. The heart grows weak, the nervous system falters, catabolism far outpaces anabolism. It’s not as dramatic as an aneurysm, not as painful as a coronary, not as protracted as a cancer. There’s just a slow fade to black.

And that’s what had been happening, step by tiny step, to Sarah Halifax, until—

"I don’t feel very well," she said one morning, her voice weak.

Don was at her side in an instant. She’d been sitting on the couch in the living room, Gunter having carried her in a chair downstairs about an hour earlier. The robot came over almost as quickly, scanning her vital signs with his built-in sensors.

"What is it?" Don asked.

Sarah managed a weak smile. "It’s old age," she said. She paused and breathed in and out a few times. Don took her hand, and looked up at Gunter.

"I will summon Dr. Bonhoff," the robot said, his voice sounding sad. At the very end of life, house calls had come back into fashion; there was no need to tie up a hospital bed for someone who had no hope of getting better.

Don squeezed her hand gently. "Remember what we agreed," she said, her voice low but firm. "No heroic measures. No pointless prolonging of life."

"She’s not going to last the night," said Dr. Tanya Bonhoff, after ministering to Sarah for several hours. Bonhoff was a broad-shouldered white woman of about forty, with close-cropped blond hair. Don and she had withdrawn from the bedroom, and now were standing in the study, the computer monitor blank.

He felt his stomach clenching. Sarah had been promised another six or eight decades, but now…

He groped for the stenographer’s chair and lowered himself unsteadily onto it.

Now, she might not have another six hours.

"I’ve given her painkillers, but they won’t affect her lucidity," the doctor said.

"Thank you."

"I think you should phone your children," she said gently.

Don returned to the bedroom. Carl was on a business trip to San Francisco; he’d said he’d take the next possible flight, but even if he could get a red-eye, he still wouldn’t be in Toronto until morning. And Emily was out of town as well, helping a friend close up his cottage for the winter; she was now racing back, although it would take her at least four hours to get here.

Sarah was lying in the bed’s center, her head propped up by pillows. Don sat on the edge of the bed and held her hand, his smooth skin such a stark contrast with her wrinkled, loose skin.

"Hey," he said, softly.

She tilted her head slightly and let out a breath that hinted at being the same word in reply.

They were quiet for a time, then, softly, Sarah said, "We did all right, didn’t we?"

"For sure," he replied. "Two great kids. You’ve been a wonderful mother." He squeezed her hand just a little harder; it looked so fragile, and bore bruises on its back from needles having been inserted there today. "And you’ve been a wonderful wife."

She smiled a little, but probably as much as her weakened state would allow. "And you were a won—"

He cut her off, unable to bear the words. "Sixty years" is what came out of his mouth, but that, too, he realized, was a reference to their marriage.

"When I’m…" Sarah paused, perhaps vacillating between saying "dead" and saying "gone," then opting for the latter: "When I’m gone, I don’t want you to be too sad."

"I… don’t think I’ll be able to help it," he said softly.

She nodded almost imperceptibly. "But you’ve got what none of the rest of us ever had." She said it without remorse, without bitterness. "You were married for six decades, but have even more than that amount of time to get over… get over the loss of your spouse. Until now, no one who’d been married that long ever had that luxury."

"Decades won’t be long enough," he said, his voice cracking slightly. "Centuries wouldn’t be."

"I know," said Sarah, and she rotated her wrist so she could squeeze his hand, the dying woman comforting the living man. "But we were lucky to have so long together. Bill didn’t have nearly that long with Pam."

Don had never believed in such nonsense, but he felt his brother’s presence now, one ghost already hovering in this room, perhaps ready to conduct Sarah on her journey.

Sarah spoke again, although it was clearly an effort. "We were luckier than most."

He considered that for a moment. Maybe she was right. Despite everything, maybe she was right. What had he thought, back on the day of their sixtieth wedding anniversary, while waiting for the kids to show up? It had been a good life — and nothing that had happened since could erase that.

She was quiet for a time, just looking at him. At last, she shook her head slightly.

"You look so much like you did when we first met, all those years ago."

He tilted his head dismissively. "I was fat then."

"But your…" She sought a word, found it: "Intensity. It’s the same. It’s all the same, and—" She winced, apparently feeling a knife-edge of pain, sharp enough to cut through the drugs Bonhoff had given her.

"Sarah!"

"I’m—" She stopped herself before giving voice to the lie that she was okay.

"I know it’s been difficult for you," she said, "this last year." She paused, as if exhausted from speaking, and Don had nothing to fill the void with, so he simply waited until she had regained enough strength to continue: "I know that… that you couldn’t possibly have wanted to be with someone so old, when you were so young."

His stomach was as tight as a prizefighter’s fist. "I’m sorry," he said, almost in a whisper.

Whether she’d heard him, he couldn’t say. But she managed a small smile. "Think about me from time to time. I don’t—" She made a sound in her throat, but he perceived it as one of sadness, not a sign of further deterioration. "I don’t want the only person thinking about me 18.8 years from now to be my pen pal on Sigma Draconis II."

"I promise," he said. "I’ll be thinking about you constantly. I’ll be thinking about you forever."

She made a weak smile again. "No one could do that," she said, very softly, "but of all the people I know in the world, you’re the one who could come the closest."

And, with that, her hand went limp in his.

He let go of her hand and shook her ever so gently. "Sarah!"