Ted felt pretty good, all things considered: macular degeneration, a slow-spreading crack in his shell, and arthritis in all four flippers. He’d lost his sense of smell entirely and the barnacle in his old hook-and-release wound wasn’t getting any smaller. He wouldn’t be able to eat the cake, but he still had enough breath in his lungs to blow out a few candles, and for that he was thankful. And more than that, he was content. Even if he couldn’t quite get around anymore like he did in his two-hundred and thirties.