Alex Finch lay in the bed. He was old now. Eighty-five. His hair was snow white. His face was a map of wrinkles, each line telling a story.
He looked at his hands. They were thin. Frail.
"The machine is breaking down," Alex whispered.
Mark sat next to the bed. He was old too. He wore a hearing aid and walked with a cane. But he was still wearing a bright red tracksuit.
"Don't say that," Mark said, his voice raspy. "You are just resting. Halftime."
"This is full time, Mark," Alex smiled weakly. "Injury time is over."
Rico sat on the other side. He was holding a small bongo drum, tapping it gently with one finger.
"The rhythm is slow today," Rico said softly.
"Adagio," Alex nodded.
Milo stood by the window. He was wearing a suit made of black velvet.
"THE UNDERTAKER!" Milo tried to shout, but his voice cracked. "ALEX! I AM SELLING... I am selling..."
Milo stopped. He wiped a tear from his eye.
"I am not selling anything today," Milo whispered. "Today is free."
