In some areas of the world there are reports of people living over a century—in some cases, well over that. You get this stuff from, say, the Caucasus or South America. I’ve seen it explained as people tacking on estimated life-experience or as fugitives from oppressive regimes taking over people’s identities in order to remain safe.

This is true a lot of the time. There are a few, however, who were like us.

Tsering was one of them. Back when I knew him he was a Buddhist monk, in the late 1800s. He taught me a few things about our kind; I’d used a method of his to escape the ambush from the five dudes and the laser-eye woman.

As I hadn’t needed to use my skills to communicate in Tibetan while I was in New York, “rusty” was a generous term. “ང་ཪང་བདེ་པོ་ཡིན།” I stammered. He smiled. “It’s nice to see you again,” I continued, in English now.

“Likewise,” he responded.

I couldn’t resist the urge to make a joke. “Been waiting long, have you?”

“Long enough.”

“Who the crap is this?” Zoe wondered.