...about the chilly metal buttons of the keypad into which I punched my social security numberafter waiting in line for over forty-five minutes behind other soon-to-be Knowers.
...for glancing once more at the piece of paper, for tearing it into as many scrapsas possible though it was essentially a scrap to begin with, for dropping it into the factory-scentedbreeze.
“F*** you,” he said. “I’m sorry, but f*** you.”
The outside seemed more dangerous—there it could be a falling branch, a malfunctioning crane, a truckraring up onto the sidewalk.
11:54pm on April 17, 2043. We are both alive and well. Yet I mustn’t get ahead of myself. There are stillsix minutes remaining.