“Epitaph.” He needed to use the word, but he wasn't sure how to spell it. Or what it meant. Fortunately, there was a pocket dictionary in Y.M.'s top desk drawer. David had seen him use it many times to write wordy reprimand letters regarding his minor screw-ups. As he dug through the drawer searching for it, he spotted the magazine, folded open, lying there on the desk. It was an article about a Cryogenics Research program at the University of Arkansas. The newly-formed project was actually advertising for human subjects that had terminal diseases, asking them to contact the University regarding the possibility of being “cryogenically preserved” until such time that a cure for their illness could be found. The ad said they were open 24-hours a day.

David suddenly received an electrical jolt through his body, like he had grabbed the spark plug of a running lawn mower. He reached into the inside pocket of his vest and retrieved the folded magazine article he had carried with him since his brother’s murder. It came apart in squares as he unfolded it once again and laid it out on Y.M.’s desk. The same article! It was like rubbing salt in an open wound. David put his head in his hands and felt that familiar lump in his throat.

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