The secretary watched the family enter the clinic. The desk display showed they were right on time. Emmylou Watkins, age 82. That would be the stone-faced woman moving like a battleship under full steam. The worried-looking man and woman right behind her were the harbor tugboats maneuvering her in to dock against her will.

The boy and girl with them…well, that was where the metaphor broke down. Sailboats full of paparazzi, maybe? They had that air of cultivated detachment they put on to try to hide their insecurity. She felt for them. Teenagers were still sure they’d live forever. It wasn’t fair to confront them with such direct evidence of mortality.

“They’re expecting you; go right in.” Her cheerful voice belied her inner sadness. She had seen this scenario play out dozens of times. The irony of life-extension was that the elderly, who would benefit most, were so set in their ways they’d never dream of taking advantage of it.

The family of five stepped into the clinic. The door slid shut behind them.