The Last Thing He Said

I couldn’t remember the last thing my husband said in my dream. I remembered it later.

She was sitting in the driver’s seat of her car, the engine running, the rest stop ahead swallowed by night. Darkness pressed in from all sides. She didn’t question why she was there. She had the calm, unshakable certainty that she was waiting.

She stepped out to stretch her legs.

That was when she saw her husband.

His silhouette moved quickly across the empty lot toward the car, his stride frantic and uneven. She started to say something—about moving the vehicle, about blocking the entrance—but the words caught when she noticed what he was carrying.

A shovel.

He gripped it tightly in his right hand, the metal catching faint light as he drew closer. His mouth moved as if he were speaking, but the words came out low and indistinct. He never looked at her. He went straight to the passenger door, climbed inside, and set the shovel across his lap, staring ahead as if she weren’t there.

She hurried back into the driver’s seat, her pulse quickening. He continued to mumble, eyes fixed on the dark stretch of road beyond the windshield, showing no sign that he saw her, or knew she was in the car at all.

She reached out and placed her hand against his cheek.

He stopped speaking.

Slowly, he turned and looked directly at her. He said something—clearly, deliberately—words she understood completely.

Her body jerked awake.

She lay in bed, gripping the comforter, the room dark except for a thin line of light slipping in from the kitchen through the bedroom door. Her breath came fast. The last moments of the dream were already fading, everything except the certainty that he had answered her.

She let out a quiet breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. Dreams were just dreams. No matter how vivid, they always dissolved in daylight. With a faint, almost embarrassed smile, she pushed the covers aside and focused on the day ahead.

The hallway floor was cold beneath her feet as she slid on her slippers and headed toward the kitchen. Her husband sat at the dining table, laptop open, fingers moving steadily across the keys. The smell of fresh coffee filled the air.

“Good morning,” she said, kissing his forehead.

“Morning,” he replied, one arm circling her waist. “Sleep okay?”

“For the most part.”

She poured two cups of coffee, the quiet routine settling her nerves. Carrying the mugs, she spoke lightly.

“I had the strangest dream just before waking up,” she said. “I was waiting for you at a rest stop in the middle of the night. You came out carrying a shovel.”

His fingers paused above the keyboard.

“A rest stop and a shovel?” he repeated.

“Yeah,” she said with a small laugh. “You were acting really strange. Mumbling. I couldn’t understand what you were saying until—”

“Until what?”

She frowned. “That’s the thing. I don’t remember. You answered me, but it’s gone.”

He smiled. “Dreams are like that.”

She set his coffee beside the laptop and leaned in to kiss him again.

“I’m going to start getting ready for work,” she said. “You heading out soon?”

“About fifteen minutes,” he replied. “Looks like another late night. The deadline got moved up.”

“Of course it did,” she said. “Love you.”

“Love you too.”

She had just turned toward the hallway when he spoke again.

“Oh—honey?”

She looked back. “Yeah?”

He paused, then smiled. “Thanks for the coffee.”

Later that night, she lay alone in bed, hovering at the edge of sleep, when she heard the front door open and close somewhere in the house. She thought about getting up to greet him, but exhaustion won. Knowing he was home was enough.

The familiar comfort pulled her under until a voice stirred her awake.

It came from the foot of the bed—low, indistinct, mumbling a question she couldn’t quite catch. Still half-asleep, she recognized her husband’s voice and wondered vaguely how much time had passed since she’d heard him come in.

“What?” she murmured.

The room was pitch black as she pushed herself upright and reached for the lamp on the nightstand.

Light flooded the room.

Her husband stood at the foot of the bed. His clothes were smeared with dirt, his face streaked dark and unfamiliar. In his right hand, he gripped a shovel, the metal head dull and worn.

He looked at her and asked again, clearly this time.

“How did you know?”