Prelude
Fifty years.
It had been fifty years since Rebecca Smith Poole had graduated from high school.
Dang.
When Becca got the email from Lisa Linda Bailly, their senior class president, she’d had to do the math twice because it couldn’t have been that long.
Only it had been that long. Every minute of that long.
So much for the class that was going to beat old, who would live forever. With very few (possibly chemical and/or medically induced) exceptions, they’d become gray hairs, or no hairs, the oldsters that back then they’d thought had one foot in the grave.
Anyone looking into the room would see a bunch of candidates for Senior Discount Day at just about anywhere. Lots of shoulders bent by gravity—not to mention other bits sagging from its evil grip. Here and there she caught g
