She wondered what her daughter would say about this initiative. Once or twice a week, she and Sal exchanged emails, but for now, Hazzley wouldn’t mention the notice. Sal, fifty-three, had moved to Ottawa decades earlier to work for Heritage, or whatever the department was called. Communications, or maybe Citizenship—Hazzley couldn’t keep up with government name changes. Sal’s husband also worked for the government, and from what Hazzley could see, they lived a hectic life. They had five children, two of whom attended university. The other three were in their teens. Framed photos of the five grandchildren hung in a row along the upper hall of Hazzley’s home. She stayed in touch and tried to keep up with their lives. They sent emails and called her on FaceTime to tell her about a race won, a mark achieved, a pet that died, a disappointing argument with a friend. Hazzley loved them all dearly and wondered what they’d say about her partly empty house.

Well, she wouldn’t mention that, either.

She stepped away from the noticeboard, forgot about buying bread or blueberry scones and left the store. She had to get home to finish an assignment for a popular science magazine. She was editing an article about bones, teeth and early tools discovered in a cave. She had a three-day window to deadline.

A wind had come up while she was inside. An outdoor geranium on display had tipped over, and crimson petals were trapped in an eddy between the front of the store and the parking lot. She tightened her jacket and stepped around petals that swirled about her ankles. Despite the wind, she was sorry she’d brought the car. She usually left it at home, unless there would be too much to carry. She walked most days, in an attempt to keep her heart (and brain, she reminded herself) healthy. She did the crossword every morning and dabbled at sudoku. She had a membership at the local gym—useful in bad weather—and stared at a muted TV screen while walking on the treadmill. She tried to stay abreast of the news and had learned multiple ways of averting her attention from American politics. She read the obituaries daily and was saddened by death—early death, any death. Too much cancer, too many accidents. She tried to keep her weight under control, knowing that many in her generation could no longer see their own feet. She was a strider, a fast mover. Lew had once referred to her as “fleet of foot”; she smiled, thinking of this. She liked to believe that she was wending her way through a life that was in no way sedentary, even though she spent hours at her computer while she worked at freelance editing jobs. She kept her hair dark and tidy, but she knew that despite her efforts, outside attitudes prevailed. People in their twenties and thirties had begun to address her as “dear.” She ignored this. She felt strong and, if anyone had bothered to ask—no one had—ageless.