Rollback

"Thank you!" he said. "This is fabulous."

Lenore was gri

"I do. I love it!"

"And I love you," she said, giving voice to the words for the first time, as she reached across the table and took his hand.

The leaves on the trees along Euclid Avenue had turned color, a mixture of orange and yellow and brown. The year was old; winter would be upon them soon. Don and Lenore walked along, holding hands. She was chatting animatedly, as usual, but he was too preoccupied to say much, for he knew he was heading back to her place for the very last time.

Dead leaves mixed with litter were blown by an afternoon breeze along the cracked asphalt. They passed houses with boarded-up windows, and a wino camped out by a sewer grate, before they reached her place. They walked around to the side of the ramshackle house and headed down to the basement apartment. When they got in, and their jackets were removed, Lenore set about making coffee, and Don looked around. There really wasn’t much that was personal to Lenore here; he knew the shabby furniture had come with the place. What few belongings she had would probably fit in a couple of suitcases. He shook his head in wonder, remembering when his own life had been so manageable, so uncluttered.

"Here," said Lenore, handing him a steaming cup. "This should help warm you up."

"Thanks."

She perched on the armrest of the couch. "And I know something else that might warm you up, Birthday Boy," she said, eyes twinkling.

But he shook his head. "Um, how ’bout we play Scrabble instead?"

"Seriously?" asked Lenore.

He nodded.

She looked at him like he was from another planet. But then she smiled and shrugged. "Sure, if you like."

They lay down on the worn carpeting, and she used her datacom to project a holographic Scrabble board between them. She drew an E to Don’s I, so went first.

Sometimes when playing Scrabble, a player will realize he has some of the letters needed to form a good word, and will set those aside at one end of his rack, hoping to acquire the others in later turns. Early in the game, Don ended up with a Y and a K, worth four and five points respectively. He passed over several opportunities to use them, but ultimately did manage to get most of what he needed, although the serious player in him hated wasting an S. He placed his tiles ru

"The blank is a T," Don said, in response to her appropriately blank expression.

"Skytop."

She wrinkled her nose. "Um, I don’t think that’s really in the dictionary." He nodded.

"I know. I just wanted to, you know, just wanted to…" He stopped, tried again. "For the rest of my life, every time I hear that word, I’m going to think of you." He paused. "More than anything Rejuvenex’s doctors did, more than any part of the rollback, it was you who made me feel young again, feel alive."

She smiled that radiant smile of hers. "I do love you," she said, "with all my heart."

He replied, echoing as much of her sentiment as he could. "And I love you, too, Lenore." He looked at her beautiful face, her freckles, her green eyes, her orange hair, committing them to memory. "And," he added, absolutely sure it was true, "I always will."

She smiled again.

"But," he continued, "I— I’m so sorry, darling, but–" He swallowed, and forced himself to meet her gaze. "But this is the last time we can see each other."

Lenore’s eyes went wide. "What?"

"I’m sorry."

"Why?"

Don looked at the threadbare carpeting. "I’m about as grown-up as it’s possible for a human to be, and it’s time I started acting that way."

"But, Don…"

"I’ve got an obligation to Sarah. She needs me."

Lenore began crying softly. "I need you, too."

"I know," Don said, very softly. "But I have to do this."

Her voice cracked. "Oh, Don, please don’t."

"I can’t give you what you need, what you deserve. I’ve… I’ve got a prior commitment."

"But we’re so good together…"

"Yes, we are. I know that — and that’s why this hurts so very much. I wish there were another way. But there isn’t." He swallowed hard. "The stars are aligned against us."

Don made his way slowly, sadly back to the subway, bumping into pedestrians, including one robot, on Bloor Street’s sidewalk, and getting honked at as he stepped into traffic without checking the light.

He wasn’t up to changing trains — something he’d have to do if he took the shortest route — and so he decided to go south. He’d go down one side of the great U and then almost all the way up the other side.

He waited for the train to arrive. When it did, there was a mad scrum as passengers jostled to get on while others were still trying to get off. Don remembered how it used to be when he was young: people wanting to get on stood to either side of the subway doors, and waited patiently until all those who wished to get off had done so. Somewhere along the line, that little civility — like so many of those that had once allowed Toronto to actually deserve its nickname of "Toronto the Good" — had fallen by the wayside, despite all the PA a

The train was crowded, but he managed to get a seat. And, as the train started up, he thought nothing about that. He was used to people offering him a seat; some few crumbs of goodness still existed, he supposed. But it came to him that although he was indeed eighty-eight, as of today, there were people who looked that old who really needed to sit down. He got up and motioned for an elderly woman wearing a sari to take his seat, and she rewarded him with a very grateful smile.

As it happened, he was in the first car. At Union, lots of people got off the subway, and Don maneuvered close to the front window, next to the driver’s cubicle, with its robot within. Some stretches of the tu

After all, you can’t go back in time.

You can’t undo what’s done.

You can’t change the past.

You can only, to the best of your abilities, try to meet the future head-on.

The train rumbled on, through the darkness, taking him home.

Don came into the entryway and paused, looking down at the tiles, at where Sarah had once lain, fallen, waiting for him to return. He took the six stairs one at a time, trudging up into the living room.

Sarah was standing by the mantel, looking either at the holos of their grandchildren or at her trophy from Arecibo; with her back to him, it was impossible to tell which.

She turned around, smiled, and started walking toward him. Don’s arms opened automatically, and she stepped into them. He hugged her lightly, afraid of breaking her bones. Her arms against his back felt like sapling branches pushed by a gentle breeze. "Happy birthday again," she said.

He glanced past her, at the foot-high digital display on the wall monitor, and saw it change from 5:59 to 6:00. When they let go of each other, she started a slow walk toward the kitchen. Rather than hurry ahead, Don fell in behind her, taking one step for every two of hers.

"You sit down," Don said, when they’d finally made it into the kitchen. Although he knew he shouldn’t, he found Sarah’s slow, methodical movements frustrating to watch. And, besides, he ate three times as much food as she did these days; he should do the work. "Gunter," he said — loudly, but certainly not yelling; it wasn’t necessary to yell. The Mozo appeared almost at once. "You and I are going to make di