The sound of a passing car stirs me from my awkward slumber against the passenger window. I hold my neck and wince as I slowly return my head to center. Another car approaches, its headlights distorted by the diagonal rivers of rainwater careening down the windshield.

I want to ask you why you’re not using the windshield wipers but I’m afraid to break your concentration. Your hair, hanging in a thick curtain that obscures your face, shines dully in the oncoming headlights before the car roars past and silence returns. We must have stopped while I was sleeping; your clothes are soaked and water drips from your coat sleeves to puddle darkly on the floor, like pools of blood.

We approach a road sign and I see that we are 15 miles from Whitby - we must be returning from visiting my parents in Pickering, a trip we’ve done so many times we could do it with our eyes closed. I smile as I realize that’s exactly what I’ve been doing. I turn to share this little thought with you, the way I share everything with you, when another sign materializes out of the darkness and gives me pause.

Whitby: 16 miles.

How is that possible? I shift my body to face you fully but just as I open my mouth to put my confusion to words you turn to me just as your features are illuminated by a street light. A long, high scream tears itself from my chest.

I wake up to find myself sitting in the passenger seat of our… my car, parked out front of my home. I close my eyes and remember that we’ll never drive those winding, windy moors again.

The End

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