It used to be that college graduation marked the start of a new life. Now it mostly just marks the end. Thrown out into the world with nothing but a lifetime of debt. And a lifetime was more than it once was.

Since Cellular Renewal was invented, nobody dies. And certainly nobody ever retires. Those with jobs hold onto them for dear life. No vacancies. No jobs. No money.

My roommates and I had big plans about life after college. We were gonna shake up the whole system, or tear it down if we couldn't. Or we'd find an island and start our own society, or join one of the mortality communes that still did things the old way. Reality whittled all those back, until life became about pooling together enough ramen to make it to the next week.

Renewal revitalises old cells, slows decay to a crawl, but it doesn't exactly make you young again. For that, you need a donor. The first Renewal recipients were administered cells harvested from cadavers but, well, with death out of the way, cadavers were soon in short supply. Which meant that, unless boomers wanted to be geriatrics for all eternity, they needed virile, fresh flesh from somewhere to invigorate themselves.

It's one of the last opportunities for someone starting out in life - selling our organs.

I find my housemate in the kitchen with the last packet of ramen and a brochure on donating.

"Some of these animal-derived organ replacements don't look so bad," he says forlornly. "And dog food is pretty cheap."

"Nobody is selling anything," I insist. "We're not out of options yet."

I had one last hope. A rich uncle. That is to say, he owned a factory, which basically made you a pharaoh in the current economy. He'd arranged a family get-together. The man was a creep and I was idealogically opposed to nepotism but, heck, a job was a job.

I travel home for the get-together. The whole extended family is there - the older generations chatting investments over beers while the younger ones cluster around the BBQ, gaunt and salivating. Lily, the girl next door, stands behind the barbecue, forking out burgers with a strangely beneficent air. I blush. She wears a 'Kiss the Chef' apron, and not much else. I'd been crushing on her since high school.

"I hope my uncle hasn't made you wear that," I say. "Where is that old perv anyway? I need to beg him for a job."

"You're looking at him." Lily's slow smile widens as I recoil. "I've had my eye on that juicy organ sack for a long time. If you're here to beg, shouldn't you be on your knees?" he smirks with her lips.