The Fountain of Age by Nancy Kress Page A

died. When her lease was up, she was going to find something else, but in the meantime she had signed up for extra hours at St. Sebastian’s, just to not be home.
    “Carrie, hearts led,” Ed Rosewood said. He was her partner, a sweet man whose hobby was watching C-Span. He would watch anything at all on C-Span, even hearings of the House Appropriations Committee, for hours and hours. This was good for St. Sebastian’s because Mr. Rosewood didn’t want an aide. He had to be pried off the TV even to play cards once a week. Mike O’Kane, their usual fourth, didn’t feel well enough to play today, which was why Carrie sat holding five cards as the kitchen staff clattered in the next room, preparing lunch. Outside a plane passed overhead, droned away.
    “Oh, yes,” Carrie said, “hearts.” She had a heart, thank heavens, since she couldn’t remember what was trump. She was no good at cards.
    “There’s the king.”
    “Garbage from me.”
    “Your lead, Ed.”
    “Ace of clubs.”
    “Clubs going around. . . . Carrie?”
    “Oh, yes, I . . .” Who led? Clubs were the only things on the table. She had no clubs, so she threw a spade. Mr. Galetta laughed.
    Al Cosmano said, with satisfaction, “Carrie, you really shouldn’t trump your partner’s ace.”
    “Did I do that? Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Rosewood, I—”
    Ed Rosewood slumped in his chair, eyes closed. So did Al Cosmano. Ralph Galetta stared dazedly at Carrie, then carefully laid his head on the table, eyes fixed.
    “Mr. Cosmano! Help, somebody!”
    The kitchen staff came running. But now all three men had their eyes open again, looking confused and sleepy.
    “What happened?” demanded a cook.
    “I don’t know,” Carrie said, “they all just got . . . tired.”
    The cook stared at Carrie as if she’d gone demented. “Tired?”
    “Yeah . . . tired,” Ed Rosewood said. “I just . . . bye, guys. I’m going to take a nap. Don’t want lunch.” He rose, unsteady but walking on his own power, and headed out of the dining room. The other two men followed.
    “Tired,” the cook said, glaring at Carrie.
    “All at once! Really, really tired, like a spell of some kind!”
    “A simultaneous ‘spell,’” the cook said. “Right. You’re new here? Well, old people get tired.” She walked away.
    Carrie wasn’t new. The three men hadn’t just had normal tiredness. But there was no way to tell this bitch that, no way to even tell herself in any terms that made sense. Nothing was right.
    Carrie had no appetite for lunch. She fled to the ladies’ room, where at least she could be alone.

    Vince Geraci’s cell rang as he and Tara Washington exited a convenience store on East Elm. They’d been talking to the owner, who may or may not have been involved in an insurance scam. Vince had let Tara do most of the questioning, and she’d felt herself swell like a happy balloon when he said, “Nice job, rookie.”
    “Geraci,” he said into the cell, then listened as they walked. Just before they reached the car, he said, “Okay,” and clicked off.
    “What do we have?” Tara asked.
    “We have a coincidence.”
    “A coincidence?”
    “Yes.” The skin on his forehead took on strange topography. “St. Sebastian’s again. Somebody cracked the safe in the office.”
    “Anything gone?”
    “Let’s go find out.”

    Erin Bass woke on her yoga mat, the TV screen a blue blank except for channel 3 in the upper corner. She sat up, dazed but coherent. Something had happened.
    She sat up carefully, her ringed hands lifting her body slowly off the mat. No broken bones, no pain anywhere. Apparently she had just collapsed onto the mat and then stayed out as the yoga tape played itself to an end. She’d been up to the fish posture, so there had been about twenty minutes left on the tape. And how long since then? The wall clock said 1:20. So about an hour.

Nothing hurt. Erin took a deep breath, rolled her head, stood up. Still no pain. And there hadn’t been pain