And right there, with Mrs. Needleman staring at her, Josie knew that if she died that day there would be several people more than willing to say that her life had sucked, but there wasnt a single soul who could claim that Josephine Agnes Sheehan had sucked the marrow out of life.

Her vision began to swim.

Are you all right, dear? Mrs. Needlemans voice had a charming warble to it. She put her hand on Josies knee and studied her face with concern.

Do you feel sick? Can I get you some water? /Oh, man./ Josie envisioned the headline on her obit, courtesy of the jokers on the copy desk:

SPINSTER EXPIRES; DOG ALERTS NEIGHBORS TO DECAYING BODY

Should I call someone at the paper and tell them youre not feeling well?

And my God! What photo would be scrounged up for her obit? The picture of Josie at her sisters wedding, in that bridesmaids dress her brother said made Josie look like an eggplant with boobs? Or the one from eighth grade, where Josie sported the Cyclops zit? Or how about the one of her stinking drunk in Cancъn after college graduation, falling out of her beach chair, digging through the sand trying to locate the lime wedge that had fallen from her Corona bottle? Because really, those were the choices. Josie had never gone to the North Pole, and the world had recently learned that the permafrost was anything but, and now she couldnt reach the top of the world unless she took a raft!

Josie began breathing too fast.

Is there anything I can do for you?

She blinked at Mrs. Needleman, embarrassed. Josie needed love in her life. She needed deep, true connectionthe kind of grand adventure that only seemed to happen to other people. And unless this eighty-four-year-old widow from Cayuga Terrace was some kind of mystical matchmaker, there wasnt a damn thing she could possibly do for her.