He sat forward over the wheel as the U-Haul droned through midnight fog. The headlights opened and closed small pockets ahead of him. He’d been driving for hours. A bump, cargo shifting, the entirety of their material existence bouncing in the clunky old truck.
–
His wife and son were driving the van down that afternoon. He kissed her on the cheek as he left, both a bit distracted. “Take care of your mom.” His son nodded in agreement as their fist bump turned into a light hug. “I'll see you guys in the morning.” They waved as he turned down the shady street. New house, New job, New life. Life was good.
–
The bridge rose out of the dark. Short, pugnacious, slick with rain, the guardrails faintly gleaming. He adjusted his grip. A semi pulled alongside, close enough that he could see its tires cutting the water, its lights flooding the cab. The lane tightened. Concrete ahead. Steel to the left. No space.
–
He drew a breath, suddenly on the open road past the bridge. He hadn’t swerved. He hadn’t blinked. The weird moment drifted through him like a dream. He kept driving.
–
The town slept under thin mist. The new place stood quiet at the edge of the cul-de-sac, porch light burning. He parked at the curb and killed the engine.
–
He expected an empty house, bare walls, the hollow sound of his own footsteps. But when he opened the door, there was light inside. A murmur of voices. The faint clink of dishes.
–
He hesitated. Maybe they hadn’t gone to bed yet. He stepped inside.
–
The air was warm, filled with the smell of food. A coat lay across a chair. The morning news blathered from a TV screen, his favorite sofa stretched in front. Isn't that on the truck? His son sat at the kitchen table, older somehow, taller. His wife moved between the stove and sink, humming quietly.
–
“Hey,” he said, confused.
–
No one turned.
–
He said her name. Louder. Nothing.
–
He took a step closer, his boots leaving no sound on the tile. He reached for the back of a chair, his hand passed through it. The motion left a shimmer in the air, like heat above asphalt.
–
He stared at his fingers. They were his, but not.
–
He tried again, reaching for his wife’s arm. His hand moved through her. She shivered faintly, pausing as if she’d felt a memory brush her skin. She finished drying a plate.
–
He spoke her name once more, then his son’s, then shouted both together. His voice made no sound at all.
–
He backed away, heart pounding, trying to draw breath that didn’t come.
–
A key turned in the front door. Footsteps.
–
A man entered carrying a grocery bag. Same height, same shoulders. Even the walk was familiar. He kissed her on the cheek, laughed softly.
–
The boy looked up. “Dad!” The word hit him like a blow.
–
He lunged forward, shouting, reaching. Nothing. No air moved. No sound carried. His hand swept through the table, through the bowl, through the boy.
–
He stumbled back, chest heaving. “What the fuck is happening!?” he tried, but the words wouldn’t form. The air didn’t catch.
–
He looked from the man to the woman, to the boy. Their faces glowed in the warm kitchen light.
–
He tried to pound the table, to make any sound at all, but the motion dissolved.
--
The hum of the refrigerator, the soft well-adjusted voices of his wife and son, and whoever this was, faded.
–
Only the dull roar of his own panic remained.