A garbage truck wakes him. He lounges on the sofa. His thoughts are fuzzy. He recalls his dream, a complex voyage story. Doesn’t analyze it, just changes subtle details. But how did it end?
They trounce downstairs, all flushed, breathless, their cocoon intact. They smell like the other, like a field of freshly cut wheat. They say “Good morning, sleepyhead.”
She turns on the TV. Flips on the Today Show. There are guests, a panel of women talking about their spouses who have died in their sleep. These women lay adjacent to a corpse. “Gross,” she says, burying under the gray blanket.
“Gone before dawn,” he says. Without realizing, he ends his dream this way.