Alyosha never planned to live past fifty.
Everybody else in his family died young.
They had kind warm defective hearts, with lifetime guarantees.
He had spent all his money, gave it all away.
The last day of his forty-ninth year he climbed a mountain that he thought should surely kill.
It did not; the view was amazing from the top.
The hike back to basecamp was a time of clarity and reflection.
Endorphins are a hell of a drug.
His wife greeted him, kissed him and handed him a note.
You are going to be a grandfather.