Jason Terry sat across the table from the old man. “One more year. That’s all I’m asking from you. One more year.”
The old man retrieved a pocketwatch from his robe. He observed it for a long time. The only movement was the ticking of the second hand and the imperceptible progression of the hour hand; everything else was still.
Finally, he replaced the watch in his pocket. “I can do what you ask. But you know well, Jason, that Father Time’s gifts are not given truly as such. They are loans, and the interest rates are quite high.”
“What’s the catch?” Jason asked, his tone of voice suggesting that no penalty was too steep for another year of playing the NBA.
“James Harden will have ten years added to his internals. On the surface, he will have the same vital youthfulness about him, but he will be beset with aches and pains so acute that his efficacy in the sport will be much diminished.”
Jason waved his hand dismissively. “That’s fine. While we’re on the subject, can you make me look a little younger? These wrinkles and lines are not a good look.”
Father Time scoffed. “I am not God. I am a mere subset of him.” Before Jason could question him further, Father Time muttered a nearly inaudible incantation, and disappeared.