The dead children threw me a party.
After writing in my journal on the night of the fourteenth, I spoke with Lucy into the early hours before dawn. The question of my age and my birthdate arose, and I saw no reason not to be truthful with her. I informed her that on August 15th, 1954, I would be three hundred and seventeen years old.
While she did not doubt me, she did snicker about being Methuselah. I cheerfully reminded her that I was only a third of the way there.
When I awoke this morning, I found a small selection of toys waiting for me, and a group of dead children who sang happy birthday to me.
It was one of the finest birthdays I have ever had.
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