Going Home
by Cameron L. Mitchell

Driving through the murky black night, I can’t help but wonder if I’m really here at all, awake at such an ungodly hour before dawn.  It could be a dream.  Suddenly, I’m sure none of this is real.  I must still be asleep back in that cheap hotel room off the highway, missing the day’s one and only flight out of this place, the mountains I once called home.  My hands grip the wheel tighter, my foot presses down harder on the gas, but I can’t quite connect to the movements my body seems to be making on its own.  I feel untethered to the world just outside the window, flashing by.  Like I might drift off and disappear if I’m not careful.  Then again, I always felt that way here.