“How do I know when that last week would be?”

“You don’t. That’s the risk of that choice. You might die next week or in forty years. What you discover could be reassuring or depressing. You take your chances.”

“When you say one more week, does that mean to live or to figure this out? Because if I’m going to die tomorrow anyway—”

He looked at his watch. I looked at it too and did a double take because it was a white-gold IWC Da Vinci. I know because it is rare, costs a fortune, and was exactly the same watch I wore. Instinctively I looked at my wrist. My watch was gone. I always wore my watch. He was wearing my watch. I was so instantly sure that I didn’t need to ask to see if a long thin scratch ran across the back.

“That’s my watch.”

“And a very beautiful one too.” Raising his wrist, he turned it slowly back and forth.

Fran Junior saw it coming before I even knew it was in me. He shouted, “Don’t!” But it was too late. Nothing stops my anger when it comes. Nothing.

“Don’t! Don’t! Don’t!”

But I was already throwing the punch as Astopel admired my watch. Starting up high, I dropped it down just enough to give him the full pop on the temple. Bull’s-eye. He fell where he stood.

Little Fran froze. Squeezing his eyes shut, he slapped both hands over his ears, as if preparing for a big boom to follow. Because I was watching him, I didn’t see what was going on with Astopel. I’d assumed he was out for a while. Wrong. When I looked down, he was staring at me with the same warm smile we’d begun with.

“Give me back my watch.”

“Excellent choice!” Undoing it, he handed it up but he was looking at Little Fran and not me. I took the watch and turned it over to check the back. The scratch was there, but so was a date engraved in thick gold numbers that had never been there before.

“What’s this?”

“A reminder, Mr. McCabe. You have one week. One week from the date on that watch. Incidentally, I was planning on returning it to you. But your reaction does make things so much simpler. A quick question—how’s your German?”

I didn’t remember what day it was so I looked at the watch again. I saw the date and a moment later—my hand. Liver spots. My hand was covered with cantaloupe-colored liver spots. And half of the pinkie on my right hand was missing. The skin was very wrinkled and looked much too big for the bones it covered. A child’s bones in an adult’s hand. Shocked, I lifted the other to see the same—an old man’s hand.

And the pain! Both hands felt like they were five fingers of fiery ache. I could barely hold onto the watch.

“You know, Frannie, I asked that dentist why should I pay for an expensive crown when all I use my teeth for these days is eating hamburgers and suckin’ up soup.”

An old man stood nearby wearing a god-awful golf cap that looked like it fell into a plaid factory and couldn’t escape. The rest of his outfit made things worse. A shiny green short-sleeve shirt about two sizes too big and—help!—plaid pants that not only didn’t match his hat but were at war with it. Large gold glasses magnified his eyes into pool balls and a smile so full of yellow teeth they might as well have been bamboo.

I gave him the once-over glance and then returned to looking at my hands. I saw something else wrong. My eyes slid down to my shirt and pants, both of which were—red. I was wearing red clothes? But I mean really red—clown-nose, Coca-Cola-sign red– baggy red shirt and pants on top of a pair of brown suede Hush Puppies. Had I changed into an old golfer? Shriveled hands, Hush Puppies, and red pants? Holy shit! It wasn’t bad enough growing hair out of your ears and nose when you got old; apparently you grew serious bad taste too.

“What do you think, Fran? Think I should get the porcelain or the gold?”

When I could finally stop gawking at my hands, pants, and this old windbag in his plaid cap, I slowly looked around. We stood in the middle of a wide walking street. Every sign on it was in German. I remembered Astopel’s last question, “How’s your German?” Now I knew why he asked.

It was a beautiful street, but one glance told you it was not America, much less precious old Crane’s View.

“What’s your name?” I asked Mr. Plaid. My voice was another shock—it was much higher than I knew, and all the words came out a whine.

He looked at me strangely. I had to get some kind of hold on reality before I flipped out. Almost without my realizing it, my whole body started to introduce itself. I had to take a fierce piss. Little pains announced themselves all over me. My knees cracked when I moved, my back sang ouch! when I turned to look behind. I discovered I couldn’t turn very fast even if I had wanted to. Although my body felt lighter, there was no energy to move it.

“Whatsa matter, Fran, had too much of that schnapps at the restaurant last night?”

“Where are we? Where is this?” I tried moving my head around to take in our surroundings. But something cracked viciously in my neck and paralyzed me for a moment.

“I guess you had too much! Wien, buddy, do you believe it? The old Blue Danube’s just down the way. Remember we walked this street last night to get to the boat?”

“What boat?”

He smiled like he thought I was kidding. “Boat around the city. Remember how you said it was so loud? But you spent most of your time at the bar with Susan so I didn’t think you was listening too hard.” He let out a laugh that sounded like a braying donkey. Hee-haw hee-haw.

“Susan who?”

“Susan who, the man asks. Well, how about Susan your wife?”

“Uh-oh. Fucked again.” I looked around again and only then did it slowly begin to seep through my cracks what had happened. Astopel had flung me forward to the last week of my life. Which took place a long way from home. The word Veen came back to me. That’s what Mr. Plaid said. Where the hell was Veen?

I looked at him again and was about to ask, but the expression on his face shut me up. The guy was angry.

“What’s the matter?”

“I told you about that language, Fran. I’m not a man who likes hearing profanity from no one. We’ve talked about this before—”

I stepped in close and grabbed his throat with an aching right hand. “Don’t give me any shit, Droopy. Who are you, where are we, and please answer whatever questions I have right now. Or I’ll knock your teeth so far down your throat you’ll have to stick a toothbrush up your ass to brush “em!”

Droopy grabbed my hand and gave it some kind of karate twist. Suddenly my arm was up behind my back in a hammerlock and he was breathing old-man breath over my shoulder. “Don’t be a dumbbell, Fran.” He gave rny arm a sharp push up my back and even more pain flooded me. I thought I’d pass out.

“Please let him go, mister! He gets senile sometimes and doesn’t know what he’s doing.”

I recognized the voice but couldn’t move to see if it really was whom I thought it was.

Behind me, Droopy said “You know him, young fella?”

“Yes, sir, he’s my grandfather. Grandpa McCabe.”

My arm was released but stayed where it was. For a moment it felt’like I’d never be able to unbend the damned thing again. It just sort of stayed up behind my back like a bent chicken wing.

“You better tell your granddad to behave himself or he’s gonna get into big trouble with that kinda talk.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll keep an eye on him. Thank you, sir!” Frannie Junior’s voice came out sounding like the worst kind of suck-up, sycophantic, brown-nosing ass-kisser. He came from behind and took me gently by the other arm.

I snatched it away. “What the hell are you doing here?”

He looked at Droopy and rolled his eyes in exasperation. “Don’t you remember, Cramps? I came this morning to surprise you.”

“Yeah? Some surprise.” I tried to march away but my legs felt like hot rubber bands. “I’m old! What the hell am I doing old?”