They had finally done it. The scientists had unlocked the secrets of genetics to perfect cloning, and had figured out how to “read” memories and thoughts out of your mind. There was no longer any reason to die. Whatever parts of your body wore out could be replaced, and before too long the medicos would even be able to tell your cells themselves to revitalize and grow younger without that being necessary.

Suddenly, our lives no longer ended at a horizon that was approaching ever closer. Now they stretched out to infinity, and we were laughing and and slapping each other on the back and congratulating each other on having “made it,” as if it were somehow due to our own perseverance in living this long—instead of the happy accident that we were born now rather than 50 years ago. But still, ours was the last generation who would ever have to grow up fearing death.

Nonetheless, sociologists would puzzle for years over why the announcement of this medical breakthrough triggered a huge rash of mass suicides.