Was she that disgusting?

"That's what u get 4 being nice."

Was it charity? The beautiful taking pity on the ugly?

"Isn't she the science geek?"

"Never be nice to psychos."

"She's delusional."

"2 bad, Ethan."

Sarah slammed the computer shut. She heard the expulsion of her breath-exhale, exhale, exhale. Then she raced downstairs and burst out the front door, the thumbnail faces in an orbit around her brain, laughing at her misery, flipping open previous rejections like the worn pages of a familiar book. She was fatty Sarah again, running home from school after a girl made fun of her. She was unlovable Sarah again, whose father didn't want her after the divorce. She was geeky Sarah again, in the corner of the lunchroom with a science book. Now she was delusional Sarah, crazy stalker Sarah, a post on Ethan's Facebook page, a joke being slapped from computer to computer like one of those beachb.a.l.l.s at a concert that never touches the ground.

She ran, shivering, in lightly falling snow, tears streaming down her face and hardening in the cold. There was no one to talk to. No one to comfort her. There was blackness and solitude and she was never, ever going back to that school again. What should she do? What should she do?

She thought for the first time about killing herself, the when and the how.

She already had the why.

NEW YEAR'S EVE

60.

It was 8 P.M. Grace dressed before the mirror.

She didn't want to go. She would say her h.e.l.los, present the check, and return quickly. Her makeup was done. Her hair was set. Her dress needed to be zipped, something Victor had always done for her. She reached around awkwardly, fumbling several times. But on the third try, her fingers found the zipper, and she pulled it up successfully. Then she burst into tears.

She went to the kitchen, poured some cold ginger tea, wiped her eyes, and carried the gla.s.s to Victor. He appeared to be sleeping.

"Sweetheart?" she whispered.

His eyes opened. He blinked. Her gown was satin with tulle frill and crystals sewn into the fabric.

"Look at you ... So beautiful."

She bit her lower lip. How long had it been since he'd complimented her looks? In the early years, he used to do it often, whispering to her at country club dances, "How's it feel to be the best-looking woman in the room?"

"I don't want to go. Listen to your voice-"

"Go. Nothing's going to happen in one night."

"You promise?"

"Go and come back."

"I brought you some tea."

"Thank you."

"Make sure he drinks it," she said to Roger, who sat dutifully in the corner of the living room. Roger nodded. She turned back to her husband.

"Do you like these earrings? You gave me them on our thirtieth, remember?"

"Yes."

"I always loved these."

"They look terrific."

"I'll see you in a few hours."

"All right."

"I'll be as quick as I can."

"I'll be ..."

His voice trailed off.

"What, sweetheart?"

"Here. I'll be here."

"Good."

She kissed him on the forehead and patted his chest. Then she quickly rose, hiding her tears, and walked away. Her heels clicked on the hallway tile until the sound faded.

Victor felt torn and guilty.

His final sentence to Grace had been a lie. He would not be here when she returned. He would leave while she was gone, and be on his way to the cryonics facility. That was the plan, the reason he'd encouraged her to attend the gala.

He nearly called her back. But a wave of dizziness came over him, his head drooped, and he rolled to the side. Everything he had planned for, all these weeks and months, really all his adult life, was to culminate in the next few hours. It was no time to deviate. Stick to the plan.

Still ...

He called for Roger, who approached, and he whispered something to his lowered ear.

"Do you understand?" Victor gasped. "No hesitation if that happens?"

"I understand," Roger said.

Victor inhaled weakly. "Let's go, then."

61.

It was 8 P.M. Lorraine dressed in front of the mirror.

She hated New Year's parties. But she went to one every year. Her divorced friends had made a pact not to leave each other alone on nights when loneliness had extra strength.

She sprayed her hair. She peeked down the hall to see if Sarah had emerged. She was worried about her daughter, who had barely left her room in five days, wearing the same black sweatpants and old green T-shirt. She wanted to ask about whomever the high heels had been for, but she never got any traction with such subjects. Sarah would just freeze her out.

Lorraine remembered back when New Year's Eve was still a family thing, and the one December all three of them went into the city and stood shivering in Times Square, watching the ball drop. Sarah was seven years old, still small enough to sit on Tom's shoulders. She ate honey-roasted pecans they'd bought from a street cart, and it started snowing just before midnight. Sarah screamed, "three ... two ... one ... Happy New Year!" along with a million other people.

Lorraine had been happy that night. She'd taken lots of pictures. But when they got in the car, Tom wiped the snow from his hair and said, "Well, we never have to do that again."

She went down the hall and knocked on Sarah's door.

She heard slow music playing. A female singer.

"Honey?"

It took a moment.

"What?" came the flat reply.

"Just saying bye."

"Bye."

"Happy New Year."

"Yep."

"I won't be back late."

"Bye."

Lorraine heard a car honking outside. Her friends.

"Do you have anyone to hang out with tonight?" She hated to even ask that question.

"I don't want to hang out, Mom."

"OK." She shook her head. "Tomorrow we'll have breakfast, all right?"

Silence.

"Sarah?"

"Not too early."

"Not too early," Lorraine said.

Another honk.

"I'll call you later, sweetie."

She headed downstairs. She sighed when she reached the door. She was glad she wasn't the designated driver this year. She really wanted a drink.

Sarah had already been drinking. A bottle of vodka she had taken from the dining room cabinet.

She would end her life tonight. It made the most sense. Her mother would be gone. The house was quiet. No chance of someone discovering her. Didn't people call New Year's the loneliest night on the calendar? She took comfort in knowing somewhere on the planet, someone might be as miserable as she was.

Don't they know it's the end of the world?

It ended when I lost your love.

She had downloaded that song after finding out the singer's name and had played it on her cell phone for days. She barely left her room. Didn't shower. Hardly ate. When her mother saw her emerge from the bathroom the day before, wearing the same black sweatpants and old green T-shirt, she asked, "What's going on with you, honey?" Sarah lied, said she was working on college stuff and letting herself be grubby.

She drank a swig now straight from the vodka bottle and felt it burn down her throat. Maybe they'll ask Ethan about vodka when I'm dead, she thought, make him admit the girl he so wasn't interested in was drinking with him a couple of weeks ago. She knew she could not face seeing him again, or anyone who knew him, or anyone who knew about the two of them, which was everyone now, wasn't it? There was no cover. No shelter. No hiding in cla.s.s behind her lowered head and outstretched elbow. She knew how this went. Everyone talking about you. Smirking behind your back. Posting more and more comments. "Seriously?" "Run, dude!" "Knew she was a s.k.a.n.k." G.o.d! The glee they took in ripping her, in joining Ethan's disbelief that loser Sarah Lemon should ever try to climb out of her hole. She felt worthless and hollow. There was no hope of fixing this.

And when hope is gone, time is punishment.

"End it now," she whispered.

She took the vodka and the phone and stumbled to the garage.

62.

Father Time had been watching them both.

First he stood by Victor's dying body. He saw Roger load it into a van. He followed that van to the cryonics facility, where a warehouse garage door opened with a growl.