Tell me – for God’s sake, if you wish – why some people want to live an unsustainably long life? People know that a couple more years can’t heal a sick person or make an unhappy person happy. But some people are never ready to depart this life. I call them “immortals.” You recognize an immortal by the way it answers your question about whether it plans for the Journey. It drowns you in a stream of words about great plans and expectations. A granddad will tell you everything about his young grandchild – a special one, and in great need of his granddaddy. A lady on illegal anti-aging drugs will hold a lecture about her own perfect health and whisper in your ear everything you – as she imagines – are eager to know about her young lover. We can’t just kill them off. I tell them that I personally live healthily without medication and enjoy simple food, natural sex with men of the same age, gardening, good stories, and live music. Mum applied for the Journey at seventy-two. She didn’t need to – she was granted treatment for her cancer and could easily add a couple of years. Her boyfriend applied some years ago, only because he wanted to leave when the party was at its best. The day came when Mum didn’t want to wait any more. Life Agency, where I work, found a skilful death doula and provided a 30% discount for a half hour movie about Mum’s life. I took 3-day leave. Mum’s sundial showed a quarter past 12 when she took the pills. A bumblebee landed on her special rose bush; Mum smiled and dropped my hand. So strong, so beautiful … The eldest “immortal” in my district will soon be ninety. She wears very offensive garments, sometimes a pair of antique jeans. Her twenty years younger guy drowned himself in a lake. A real lake, not a simple pond …

I’m sure that the woman crossing my street is Karin. The glasses are not of help, none of the four standard pairs for the elderly suits me. But I don’t need to spy out, Karin is as punctual as a clock. I cram my rucksack into the wardrobe. There was something I should ask her, what was it? Yes, my swimsuit. I told Karin I need it at home when it is too warm. Life Agency office has a household robot for repairing clothes. Now she is checking the camera outside my apartment, I feel her presence. She comes in with her own key without knocking. It is nice to see her beautiful face, friendly eyes, subtle wrinkles, and thinly sown freckles. Her skin is already a little bit tanned. She drops the swimsuit on my bed. Aquamarine tricot lined by blending white – luxurious Italian quality, different from today’s stuff of recycled fibre. The household robot had of course no thread in matching colour, but nobody expects that. Karin checks my medicines, electricity and water meters, moves a finger on frames to check if I dust.

“How are you, Olga?”

Shall I tell her about the pain in my shoulder?

“My shoulder, you know.”

No answer. She places me on a chair in front of her and presses her thumb on the aching point close to my shoulder-blade. How does she know it is on the left? She massages the point – gently at first, then harder and harder, until she presses with all her strength. The pain disappears. Well, she is a retrained physiotherapist. Now she asks me to stand up. She presses my left buttock with two fingers. It turns out that it is a pain point, too. Karin smiles her mermaid’s smile which is not addressed to me.

“You think it is the shoulder. The truth is that the whole of you is in pain, but you are only able to feel it in one place at a time. Why aren’t you taking painkillers? Shall I give them to somebody who can’t pay – before they expire?”

I don’t answer because she has already tucked away my pills. Damn it. Now she asks me to stand on one foot, stretch, take some steps straight forward, with open or closed eyes and so on. I manage it well, I imagine, but she is not pleased. Only when I’m close to losing my balance while doing a deadlift, she smiles again as she catches me before it happens. Before leaving she teaches me a special exercise for my shoulder and forbids me to go out alone. When she is gone, I notice that my blood pressure drugs disappeared along with a packet of painkillers. Ok, I’m prepared. I have enough in the rucksack. Blood pressure drugs and all sorts of things.

“3748 refuses pain medication. Her balance is bad. Her water meter reveals that she is not taking care of her hygiene.” I sit on a park bench under a silver linden and fill in the diary. A seven-storey house next to Olga’s is being rebuilt into a hive. Three apartments on the ground floor will be a shared kitchen and living room for around fifty people. The rest are sleeping dens with a toilet and a shower for every floor, open air fitness gymnasium and a shared garden around the corner. Happy living for young singles. For Olga it is just a question of time before she falls and hurts herself. An injury in combination with high blood pressure, qualifies for palliative care only in her age category. When I told her about Mum, the reaction was: “Poor thing – only seventy-two”. How dare she?!

One day we sat on her antique IKEA sofa in genuine pine and spoke about her situation. I told her about all the nice things available in special hives for the elderly – real meals, easy gardening, walks, library, a fitness room and whatever she wants. She laughed: “Oh, what a pretty waiting room for death!” She knows it is illegal to move her against her will. Time to alert the municipality. “3748 is not signing for special accommodation. I hand over her case to the Section for Overaged as soon as possible.”

I wait for a ringdove’s coo. This cold weather will soon be over, according to the forecasts. We have plenty of city-dwelling birds – according to the ornithologists, we have more species here, in the urban mixture of park vegetation and buildings than in Silvania. But nothing is sure about Silvania, the land of true forest. It is notoriously difficult to study. We know more about life on other planets than in Silvania. Good night, Karin, I know whom you are thinking about. But there are one or two things you don’t know about me, just because you don’t care.

A lot of people rank February as the best month of the year. I agree. It can be cool like this year, but if gardening doesn’t start now, it can be too late. March is too dry. Everyone in my cooperative hive has access to two square metres of garden. It can be a balcony, a section of a gallery or a roof terrace. For inhabitants of the first two floors, it is a plot on the ground. Everyone is allotted two standard bins, we fill them with kitchen, toilet and yard waste and sand. Nobody checks what people grow, but it is of course food. I’m lucky to have a balcony, which I can enter directly from my luxurious room of six square metres, with a kitchenette and a private toilet-and-a shower cabin. Our hive has its own super modern water purifier. If you use little water, you can tap more purified water for the garden, a fair system. My quota is enough for growing beans, tomatoes, some sweet potatoes plus a couple of pink-white-greenish roses, an inheritance from Mum. Today I’ll remove the winter covering and let my roses breath. In the next two hours the hive will switch on the water. In the meantime, I make food for half a week. I got some brown factory grown substance for the protein check. Nobody knew what kind of bacterium it was – soil, air and gut bugs can all be farmed for protein. It happens that people lose their appetite when they learn about the origins of their food. Not me. I’m always hungry at dinner time.

When I still was GD of Orlången National Park, it was still open for visitors. We had a set of rules and some surveillance drones. The stuff entered the area, when necessary, the public could apply for one free two-hour guided tour a year. Sometimes I just wanted a walk, and nobody cared if Alex accompanied me. Now the whole area of 1500 hectares is shut off. It connects to the rest of Silvania by overpasses and tunnels and is consecrated to climate, air, water, and biological diversity. Orlången was approved to be merged with Silvania in 2132, the same year I retired. Some years later all gates to the former national park were shut. My workplace five minutes cycle from here was closed. Overpasses and tunnels between Silvania’s islands are for animals, seeds, insects and whatever, but not humans. Nobody knows what the wildness of Orlången, abandoned by human inhabitants and visitors, looks like right now. Aerial photos give some clues, but not the whole picture. A completely different mixture of old and new species, including all lichens, fungi, and unknown life is a true jungle, never seen before, grown out of control, and poorly studied. Alex managed to penetrate inside the walls four years ago, I don’t know how. He sent me a picture of an overgrown public path, a lake, full of water lilies. Life itself took him. The way to Silvania is in any case a one-way-road. Only birds pass in both directions.

A message from Head office. Major power failure. No calls from the users, no alarm. I dress for a cool night and leave the hive. It may be that there will be fewer users by the morning. Euthanasia in Sweden has the most rigorous legislation in the world. It can never be forced on anybody, and no AI is allowed in decision-making or implementation. The user’s consent is mandatory, even in special hives for the elderly. But why not take a chance and explain the idea of the Journey when sitting at a user’s bedside in darkness? I love to discuss the afterlife, what if they are to be reborn as a Silvanian deer, or a jungle cat? If somebody accepts my offer – I praise them for everything that they have done and thank them for their sacrifices for the community. They enjoyed everything when young – camping in the wilderness, grilling genuine meat, they could fly to the end of the world just to bathe and make love to strangers … Olga told me that she was a boss of Orlången National Park before it merged with Silvania. Is it true, or just another beautiful story she read when she was able? What luck that people still can die, despite all the wonder drugs.

I wake up. Special darkness signaled a power failure. Right, my lamp in the bed corner is dead. The camera in the entrance can’t see me. Since Alex’s departure I always sleep dressed. I wrote a short message to Karin, by the light of my flashlight, put a bottle of water and my night thermos into the rucksack and walked out. The thermos has landed on something, maybe an old packet of biscuits from an outing decades ago. I don’t care.

When you are liberating somebody just catching a chance, without due preparation, you must look completely unmoved. It is nothing special for you nor for the user. They trust you. When the user is a very old person, say, eighty or older, living on their prescription drugs on borrowed time, there is no better way to carry it out than to stop them breathing. One injection is enough. I say to the user that they are dehydrated and must have some liquid. Of course, they sign the agreement, but it happens that they think about something else when I divert their attention. But nothing will work with Olga, that dreadful creature! Life Agency will send somebody else when it decides to euthanise her – if they can find someone. Nobody likes to liberate someone who is unprepared. Tonight, I shall just train my flashlight at her shameless face and ask her why on earth she wants to live longer than other people. No family, all friends gone. Tonight, I’m not leaving before Olga gives me an answer I can accept.

Orlången was my happy place, my own wilderness, my second home. I live a couple of kilometres from her, but I sometimes feel her air of freedom and wild beauty. I took care of her – and gave her away for free, as a gift to all living things. Now she belongs to Silvania, an enormous Eurasian realm of plants and beasts, and my heart still belongs to her. The old staff gate will not let me in. When an area is added to Silvania, all entrances are to be taken away at the end of the transitional time. For Orlången extra time was put aside because it was still populated, but everything is made up, the inhabitants moved a long time ago. There are some one-way passages for animals. Our parks simmer with life. Deer, hares, squirrels, foxes, goats, and whatever is on four legs enter the path to Silvania when they become too many. These special entrances recognize animals only. Nothing is allowed back from Silvania where they must find food, fight their own wars, survive their own pandemics, move to other parts of the world – or go extinct. Only birds pass freely between the worlds.

Olga is demented – no doubt about that. Her door is wide open. A note on the table informs me that she is gone. Olga, I see myself that you are gone … I train the light on the walls. Same old rubbish as always. A painting of an ancient forest – no doubt a copy from an old photo. Porcelain and pewter dishes, old books in a bookcase. Nothing worth a second look. I wonder for a moment if I did something wrong. The short answer is “no.” One or two “immortals” disappear every year. They are found at odd, non-existent places – on the stages leading to a rebuilt, abandoned office, in a neighbourhood where another “immortal” can help with identifying the corpse. They can dwell in a memory grove, and even make desperate attempts to enter Silvania. The long answer is “I was on the way to try, but …” I write a notice and attach some photos. They will find her when the power is back. Olga was offered all support to stay healthy as long as possible, and being overaged, to end her life with dignity. What more could I do for her?

The park walk is fully visible in star light. I see my old office building. Today it is turned into a community meeting-place with laundry, kitchen, emergency equipment etc, surrounded by a newly built hive complex. From the office it is only one and a half kilometre to the lake, as the crow flies. I shut my eyes and discover that I still follow the path, the way guides me. I see the lake with my mind’s eye, just a common Swedish lake, plus all the creatures which people say they discerned in shots from Silvania drone surveillance – white herons, alligators, sea monsters, neanderthals … Yes, some people are sure that there is a neanderthal family in Orlången. According to what they say, the family migrated from unknown parts of Silvania … The walk becomes narrower, a branch scrapes my cheek. I stop. The wall surrounding Silvania comes close, high, and impenetrable. It looks different from my time. I guess it is repaired with some new material.

It is partly overgrown by a quickly expanding ivy hybrid. No spyholes. They were popular once in the past, we had special ones for kids. People took pictures. Hell, why are people not welcome to see a piece of Silvania? I continue to the staff gate. The opening is walled, of course. Before I continue, I notice a companion, a young deer. Poor thing. Another Silvania-dreamer? Dear friend, Silvania is harsh. Unforgivable.

I’m back around 2 a m. Power failure is great! The users were not more nervous than usual. In the years before climate graphs started to improve, they were generally more nervous. The New Green Transition produced a lot of problems, without any noticeable rewards. A vast majority could not pay the new rents for their spacious apartments, and some people had to leave their country homes for urban neighbourhoods. No more luxury, what a tragedy! The standard of today is a park for five hundred people. It includes a grove, a playground, a pond, an outdoor gymnasium. A larger park shared by some thousands could give an illusion of lost wilderness, but an awful lot of people did not thrive. Add to that living in hives, in small private rooms with shared facilities. Suicides became so common among older people that assisted journeys with a simplified procedure from the age of sixty-five won political capital. At the beginning I was skeptical, but after some time I changed my mind. We guarantee the rule of law, political and religious freedom to all citizens, as well as healthcare & welfare. With one exception: when people cannot work anymore – cannot create, cannot produce, research, invent, design, teach, care etc. – they are still eating, breathing, consuming goods. Is that sustainable?  Tonight, I held a man’s hand. He told me that he wanted to apply for the Journey, but without all that unnecessary stuff – questioning, waiting, rituals. He was new in my district. It was my first visit – I just wanted to ask him if he needed something. An almost healthy man, soon to be seventy. It was his right to keep the reason secret. We signed the form; he was able to read everything by the emergency light. His hand and voice were enough for legitimation. The procedure took a little bit of time because he wanted to enter upon the Journey looking nice and newly shaven. After that I asked him if we should proceed, he nodded. I picked up my bag with a four-leaf clover. I took it with me just in case, for the eventual liberation of Olga. After giving him the shot I felt that I could have tried to persuade him to wait until morning. I could stay with him or come back another day. Too late. I stayed an extra time after I certified his death, locked his eyes, and kept up his lower jaw until the body became rigid. His relatives may wish to see him before the funeral team arrives. Who wants to see a corpse with an open mouth?

I have not been here since Alex’s departure. I never saw this group before. A woman hugging a tree. This new material emits discrete light, invisible wind ravages the tree crone and the woman’s hair. I find it beautiful, with the wall in the background. It looks like the end of the road. I rummage about in my rucksack, find my toilet bag with drugs under the swimsuit and take a sip from the water bottle. If they find me here alive, I’ll be transported to a special dwelling for the elderly. I can’t go any longer. The deer comes out from the dark, passes by me and freezes behind the sculpture. The dawn makes progress. I can’t see any lights, but I feel something like a subtle breath of wind and hear a sound like a grating door. I pick up the rucksack and rush up just in time to see the deer disappear through an opening in the wall. His horns kick against something. Am I invited? I remember planning safe animal entrances into Silvania, but they were built after my retirement. I don’t need to lower my head when I walk in. I hear no sound of the door closing behind me but when I look back no way out is visible. How could it happen? Something to do with the power failure?

I get up before dawn. Still no power, but I dress and go to my second job. My wages from Life Agency are not enough for both eating and heating, so I took a job at a local kindergarten, for families working on holidays. Of course, it is much more fun than Life Agency. Compared to old stinkers, children are a different species. They take the day as it comes, are constructively minded and enthusiastic. I’m not a trained teacher, I just look after them, play, sing, read, tell them stories, and take them for a walk to a park. Today we have a picnic with apple-drink which I cooked with the last apples we harvested together for winter use. There is an animal gate into Silvania from the park, but it is locked during the daytime. I brew my tea directly in the thermos, fix sandwiches with Sun cheese and leave. The kindergarten shares an emergency generator with a local school and the cottage hospital. At the nursery school I take a sandwich with some tea, waiting for the first kids to arrive. Their parents work shifts in the factories, producing food, clothing and whatever from microbes; they collect, compost, and recycle waste … Robots are too expensive to run and are not good at improvising when necessary. Humans, working for rent, food cards and prescribed medications, improvise all the time.

I’m not sure what happens next. The deer stays a couple of metres from me and looks as if he knew something. Has he been here before? Strong, artificial light turns on from the lamps on the wall, the power failure is over. I hear water running – bowls, hanging on the wall, get filled. Both I and the deer drink. I fill my water bottle with fresh water and proceed. The awful light disappears, the dawn becomes visible. When I look back, I can’t see anything, but I guess it is a quarantine zone for animals heading to Silvania and banned for humans and robots. A terrier comes to greet me as if I were its owner, I pat it and read its name on a silver plate. Ziva. I lead Ziva by the collar to a tree – a real old-fashioned oak. All the oaks died in our parks; we had to plant new species. I let Ziva run by herself, she looks happy, we enjoy each other’s company from the first sight. Then I lie down on something soft under the young green leaves. Ziva sits up and keeps guard. The deer passes by, Ziva growls, he disappears in a grove. It is easy to breathe here, maybe because of the breeze from Silvania. The air is spiced with the scent of wintered leaves and spring flowers. What an amazing microclimate! I do not freeze, despite lying on the ground. As in a dream I see two deers emerging from the grove. My deer meets them, ready to fight. One of the newcomers accepts the challenge, they disappear. Yes, their mating-time is here. Ziva follows them some steps but returns and lies down close to me. I don’t know how long I slept. The quarantine grove between the concrete wall belonging to my world and the inner wall of Silvania is not large, but I guess it is bigger than it looks. I remember my planning work for the inner wall, it was to be built in some special, intelligent material, able to store sunshine. I go closer and see that the colour changes from pink to cerise and all nuances of blue depending on how close one comes. The deers are here again, this time Ziva waves her tail in greeting. One of them, a female, approaches the inner wall and licks it. My deer follows her example. The female waits for him, they disappear together. I decide that their names are Melvin and Elaine. When the deers are gone, Ziva licks the wall in the same way. She glances at me, inviting me to do the same. I hesitate but, in the end, I get a small amount of something warm and sweet in my mouth, more food than drink. We lie down again. The sun of Silvania gets up, it shines warm through the opaque wall which is very beautiful when it changes from light pink to white and light blue. I return to Ziva and try to give her water from my water bottle, but she is not interested. Not am I. I pour some water on my hands, dry them with my old field towel and look. Hands and the towel are completely clean and dry.

The kids are playing. It was raining before we came to the statue of The Saviouress but the sun is shining now, a perfect day! I can feel it in the air, hear it from the birds. I have three rakes in children’s size with me, I choose the first team to clean the path of the last winter leaves. The kids work with ardour. We collect gloves, caps, toys and whatever has been lost in the leaves. Behind The Saviouress I see something I recognize. A swimsuit in aquamarine, that awful old-fashioned thing! I take a picture and add to my report about Olga’s disappearance. At the same moment, I get a message that we must leave the place because of the police. The kids are not happy – I told them that all twelve of them were going to rake the path, but I can’t keep the promise. The police robot arrives. Something tells me that it is too late. Before I have gone inside with the kids, I receive a reply to my message about Olga. I don’t need to visit 3748 until I get a new order. Olga’s number is the only user’s number I know by heart.

Time passes differently without clocks and calendars. There are no other humans here apart from me, and no robots. The grass has grown a little since my arrival, the sun is shining gently, the trees put out leaves. Red squirrels chase each other in the oak. The deer herd appears for breakfast. Birds fly freely over the quarantine zone in any direction, sometimes they circle and watch us, but I have never seen them landing, and never noticed any droppings. I’m comfortably lazy and feel well, even though I scarcely move at all. One day I try to make a sundial, just for fun, only to discover that a straight twig I found does not cast a shadow. Nor do the trees and nor do I. One day I go away for an expedition to the grove. Ziva follows. The first wood strawberries are ripening. I can’t see how large the whole area is, we walk farther and farther, but when I look back, the oak is almost as close to me as before. It may be that the grove only changes its appearance, as the wall does. Or is it something with my sight, or my mind? I try to think systematically, to remember people and events, and how I got here. I remember Alex, my old job, the woman who wanted me to agree to an assisted suicide, what was her name? Never mind. At night the wall is deep blue. How long have we been here? It looks like I’m the only one here who worries about it. Melvin, Elaine, and their friends stay deep in the grove. Ziva is with me; she looks a little bit older than when I saw her for the first time, but she plays willingly with me when we both feel like it. I am, on the contrary, getting younger – if it means more energy. My shoulder is alright when I throw a little stick to Ziva to fetch. I’m not taking any blood pressure drugs, but my heart beats are regular. I’m never bored. I play with Ziva, sometimes hum a melody and dance with her, or just lie down in the grass. The sun in the quarantine grove is friendly. The substance we get from the wall is now as summer sweet as honey, and sometimes reminds me of fresh milk from a cow I tasted once and never forgot the taste. It is never raining here but the vegetation is thriving – sometimes I can’t see Ziva when she takes a walk on her own in the lush grass. I can’t see any signs that Elaine is with young when I meet her at the wall. Nor the second female in the flock. I’m sure that both have mated. Maybe they are affected by something in the gifts of the wall? I feel myself affected, just wonder in what way, and before finding out the answer I fall into a lucid dream and invite Alex into it. I want him to say that he loves me, and it happens. He hugs me, I don’t need to wish it especially, or maybe I wish it all the time. I think it is the first time I dream in the quarantine grove. My sex still pulsates when I wake up.

Not all those employed by Life Agency give their consent to carry out euthanasia. I had to step in a few times, but now I refuse. If my dear colleagues are too gentle to give a last shot – let them find another job. My profession is about helping the Travellers, and I improve my skills all the time. We shall never hire extra staff especially for the euthanasia. I say that – in public if necessary – that Life Agency doesn’t need executioners – the assistance which we give to our Travellers has nothing to do with executions! The bosses know what I mean. It is about the politicians! Wait until the statistics for 2147 are ready! The average life span has increased for four consecutive years, and the graph has not turned down yet. Tomorrow, I start looking for new jobs. Health care for the healthy would possibly suit me. What illness is depends on a definition – some conditions have already disappeared from the list – and not to treat treatable diseases is also euthanasia! So – what are we talking about? I understand that nobody wants to slaughter animals – but it is about awful human beings of the old generation, who caused the destruction of our beautiful world, isn’t it different?

Something new is on the way. For the first time in the quarantine grove, I feel thirsty. I drink from my water bottle. Ziva does not go up. I give her some water in the thermos mug. She drinks only to make me happy, licks my hand and falls asleep. Some minutes later I need to pee – which has not happened since I have been here. When I am back, Ziva is not with me anymore. I lie down, embrace her, and stay with her until she is cold. Then I go to the grove, pick some lilies-of-the-valley, and fill my mouth with wood strawberries. Back at the oak I lay the flowers on Ziva’s eyes. I notice for the first time a heap of rubbish, left over from building the wall – the same opaque material in pink, cerise, light blue and green. I collect the best pieces, make a grave chamber for Ziva, and carry her to her burial place. She is heavy, her body casts a shadow. I place her in the chamber and cover the opening, sit down and cry. When I have no more tears, I feel a cold breeze. The wall is not there. All the inhabitants of the quarantine grove rush and run at the same time. I take my rucksack and follow them, then I look back. A new wall is rising from the old stuff and energies unknown to me. I think it will feed and protect new creatures on their way to Silvania.

February is a spring month, but the spring is cold this year. Silvanian birds sing, there are some species I never heard of before. The deer herd keeps together, they enter the ecoduct over Länna way. I wave with my hand. It was I who chose this ecoduct out of four models. It is a little bit higher and costs more, but now I see it is a real success. There are animal streams in both directions. I see a single bison heading to Orlången. The deer herd disappears in the distance. I try to find my old path to Mörtsjön, our lake, mine, and Alex’s. The landscape has changed from pastures and groves to thick forest. The path is overgrown, but I see some horse manure and guess that some horses from the nearby Balingsta riding school survived and became Silvanians, and I’m on the path leading to their water catchment. It can’t be anything other than Mörtsjön, the lake. I see the water surrounded by willows. The lake looks bigger and deeper than ever before, the level has risen. The rocky beach is under the water, and if I want to come closer, I must climb over a fallen pine-tree. I manage it and go to the water’s edge, stepping on animal tracks of all sizes. It is light, just minutes before the dawn. I look around. The hill is overgrown. I see a lot of raspberry bushes, like that summer long ago when Alex and I filled a tart shell with fresh berries. A ring dove coo. At last! I check the other side of the lake. Charlottendal cottage is gone, yes, it was I who signed its conveyance to the fire department for training, and the remains are now under the water. Two figures come out from the forest on the other side, I’m sure they are human. They can’t see me; the sun is going up. A boy around fourteen – fifteen, dressed in a cloak, jumps into a rowing-boat which was hidden in a clump of reeds. It is beautiful to see him row to the middle and cast a fishing rod. The woman on the shore, maybe his mother, watches him. I decide to wait until they are ready, hang my rucksack on a dry branch and look for my swimsuit. I’m sure I took it with me, but there is no time left to search – a buzz comes from above. The woman waves to the boy, he returns, both disappear into the forest. I guess that somebody, or something, sent a drone with a biologically degradable explosive charge. I say farewell to Karin who did it by pressing some button, or maybe not, just by sending some message to a specialized robot, undress and slip into the water, oh! Here is our rock, mine, and Alex’s, I recognize it with my feet, it is just some metres from the shore. I push off from it and swim a couple of strokes. Can I still do it? I take some more strokes but remember my intention, sink, and take water into my lungs. It is cold. But not painful, as descriptions say. I wait for relatives, Alex, people in my life, Ziva, Sunna, my cat from long ago, to come to meet me, but they are absent.