“How old are you?” the woman asked. “You look about eleven.” “Twenty-four,” Mae said. “My god. You don’t have a mark on you. Were we ever twenty-four, my love?” She turned to the man, who was using a ballpoint pen to scratch the arch of his foot. He shrugged, and the woman let the matter drop.”

“How old are you?” the woman asked. “You look about eleven.” “Twenty-four,” Mae said. “My god. You don’t have a mark on you. Were we ever twenty-four, my love?” She turned to the man, who was using a ballpoint pen to scratch the arch of his foot. He shrugged, and the woman let the matter drop.”

— Dave Eggers