Today was the big day. Frank Nash, exactly eighty-three years old, awoke at seven. There was no functioning alarm clock among the hundreds of useless items in his bedroom, but he always arose between seven and eight every day, in spite of his propensity to stay up half the night watching nothing on television. It took him a few minutes to get moving—his arthritis was slowly getting the best of his joints and muscles—but he could still get in and out of the shower and downstairs within forty-five minutes.

After a dissatisfying breakfast of a fishstick sandwich and a glass of tap water, Frank settled onto the sofa in the living room to watch "The Andy Griffith Show", and generally spend the morning relaxing in his underwear. This last habit was a new one he had acquired after Francine's death three years earlier. While she was alive he had a tendency to wander around the house, not in his shorts, but completely nude. Now that she was gone and her friends didn't "pop over" for annoying visits, Frank saw no reason to come hobbling down the stairs, naked as the day is long, hoping to start rumors about his degenerating mind.