Gabriel wakes to the cold biting his skin. The Cadillac is still, its windows fogged, the air stale. His stomach twists in knots. It’s been days since he scrubbed the blood from his hands at the river, and the hunger gnaws louder than his guilt.

  He rechecks the wallet—empty. No more cash. He opens the glove box, finds a small knife, and turns it over in his hand.

  “Thanks for you…” He mutters to the blade, voice hoarse.

  The car sits parked on a side street near a diner. Gabriel has been watching for hours. Waiting. Timing. Leftovers, or better yet, someone careless. His eyes sting from lack of sleep, but when a man exits the diner, his focus sharpens—expensive coat. Confident walk. Not a regular.

  “Coat looks pricey,” Gabriel whispers. “Wonder what else he’s carrying.”

  The man doesn’t head to a car. He turns down the block, walking alone into the night.

  Gabriel exhales, trembling slightly as he grips the knife. He gets out of the Cadillac and trails him at a distance.

  “If I get what’s on him… maybe I can eat for a week. Maybe longer.”

  The man cuts toward a parking garage. Gabriel quickens his pace.

  When he turns the corner, the man is right there, lighting a cigarette. Cold wind masks Gabriel’s steps until the man glances back.

  “Drop the bag or I’ll gut you!” Gabriel snapped, though his voice cracked, bouncing off the concrete walls like an echo mocking him. His grip on the knife was slick, his palm wet with sweat.

  The man froze, cigarette trembling between his fingers. “Jesus—please, don’t kill me!”

  The man takes a couple of steps back. “One more step and I’ll slit your throat. Drop it!”

  The bag, wallet, and keys hit the pavement. The man bolts, sprinting down the garage ramp, already fumbling for his phone.

  Gabriel snatches the goods and runs hard in the opposite direction. He loops around a block before slowing, trying to blend into the sparse night crowd. Breath heaving, knife still clenched, he forces himself to be calm.

  Back in the Cadillac, he doesn’t waste time. He drives two neighborhoods over before pulling into another garage, empty except for a few scattered cars. His hands are slick with sweat. He cuts the engine, slumps into the seat, and exhales in a shudder.

  The wallet spills open—at least $200. Enough to keep him alive. Relief cracks through him. He sets the money aside but knocks the man’s binder onto the floor. Paper scatters. Gabriel curses, gathering them up, until one folded page catches his eye. Across the top: Poetry – Grade Rubric.

  Gabriel freezes, staring. A teacher’s handout. He unfolds another page beside it: a student’s poem, neatly graded. The words blur as he scans them, but the ache in his chest is real. His breath slows.

  ?

  Flashback

  A classroom. Afternoon light cutting through half-open blinds.

  “The sun wakes me up,

  But I hit snooze twice.

  Dreams are better,

  School’s never nice.

  If I could fly,

  I’d skip the test,

  land on the couch,

  and just… rest.

  The student shrugs dramatically, smiles, and some people snicker and joke. He sits back down.

  Gabriel, younger then, smirks faintly, giving him a pass.

  “Even when you try your least,” Gabriel says, “there’s still something creative in you.” He turns back to the class. “Alright, next.”

  A more petite boy—Paul—rose nervously. His paper trembled in his hand, nearly slipping as he stumbled over a backpack strap. The overhead lights buzzed faintly, and the clock on the wall ticked too loud in the hush. A couple of kids smirked, gum snapping between their teeth. Gabriel frowned but didn’t intervene—yet.

  Paul clears his throat and reads. The class quickly grows restless, a few smirks and whispers in the back. Paul was shaking almost unnoticeably.

  “Something real, to him real was something you could do, attain, touch. Real is a word furthest from his mind; he lives in a reality based on time. He knew without a vision for the future, he would run out of time. Was time real? Always thinking about the hours of the day as time passed, it didn’t feel real; only in the moment was it real. Something real? The sound of the water hums in his ears like a wet morning in summer. The ocean was real; it sang and danced all day and night, even if nobody was watching, free of the cold winter of judgment. He lived far from the ocean in more ways than one. Time was on his mind. Something real, real was growing older like everyone before him. Real was the way he felt when the cold snow moved in, real was the way the cold rain felt on a quiet walk home. When he grew older, time slowed, yet rushed all at once; the glimmer in his eyes he once had became a vessel in his mind, sailing on the ocean, free to dance and sing alone. Not gone just not seen.

  Gabriel puts down the pen and notepad and looks at Paul.

  He wanted to be like the ocean. Something real, he now understood real wasn’t the way the cold moved in when it snowed, it was the way the snow fell from the sky that felt real. It wasn’t the way the cold rain was hitting the sidewalk at night that felt real; it was the rhythm of the rain hitting his skin that felt real. Now an old man in his final days, time was a word furthest from his mind; he lived in a reality that wanted to feel something. He used all his energy to walk to the beach alone, a place he’s been many times, but this one felt like the first. A dark night, a smiling, glowing moon, and the dancing ocean. He stared at the endless waters of the ocean, the infinite tune of tomorrow. He lies there, losing his ability to see, his ability to smell, his ability to feel. But as his life fades to nothing. He hears the fading sound he once adored, the song of the ocean, and for the first and final time, he felt something, something real.”

  When he finishes, silence hangs. Then a sarcastic clap from the back breaks it, followed by laughter. Paul shrinks, rushing to sit down.

  “Quiet!” Gabriel snaps. His voice cracks across the room like a whip. “Next person who mocks a presentation fails—immediately.” His glare silences the laughter. He turns back to Paul. “That was the best work I’ve heard all day.”

  Paul doesn’t lift his head, just scribbles in his notebook.

  Gabriel standing up now. “Okay, who’s next?” Changing his tone to a friendlier one.

  After some time passes. After class, Gabriel stops Paul at the door. “Stay a second.”

  The boy freezes, wary, until the room empties.

  “That was good. Don’t let them convince you otherwise.” Gabriel softens his voice. “It was personal, wasn’t it?”

  Paul hesitates. “I… guess. I just wanted it to sound real.”

  “Well, it did.” Gabriel leans back against the desk. “Can I make a copy? I’d like to keep it.”

  Paul blinks, surprised. Then, slowly, he smiles. “Really? Yeah, Mr. Gates. Sure.”

  Paul hands Gabriel the poem. “I’ll give it back to you tomorrow if that’s okay.”

  “Yeah, of course.”

  Gabriel nods, offering a rare grin. “And Paul—don’t wait for someone else to tell you your life matters. Start it yourself.”

  Paul froze in confusion slightly. “Uh-yeah, of course, thanks, Mr. Gates.”

  Paul shuffled out, clutching his notebook, and the door clicked shut behind him.

  The classroom felt too big in the silence that followed.

  Gabriel sat back at his desk, the stack of poems waiting.

  He thumbed through them halfheartedly until Paul’s slipped free on top again.

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  He marked a grade in the corner, then stared at the page longer than he meant to.

  The boy’s words weren’t polished, but they carried weight—too much for someone his age.

  A drop hit the paper before Gabriel even realized his eyes were wet.

  The ink bled in the margin. He pressed the page flat, as if that could erase it.

  It couldn’t.

  The classroom door creaked open.

  “Mr. Gates?” A girl from the earlier group poked her head in, backpack slung over one arm.

  “I forgot my math book.”

  Gabriel blinked, quickly sliding Paul’s poem under the stack.

  “Go ahead,” he said, voice steadier than he felt.

  She darted in, grabbed a book from her desk, and paused at the door.

  “You okay, sir?”

  He forced a thin smile. “Yeah. Get home safe.”

  The door shut again. The silence returned heavier than before,

  and his eyes fell back to the hidden poem in his bag.

  The house smelled faintly of garlic and soap when Gabriel came in, boots clicking against the tile. Charlotte stood at the sink, sleeves rolled up, rinsing the last of the plates. The steady drip of water filled the silence until she glanced over her shoulder.

  “You’re late,” she said lightly, tossing the sponge into the basin.

  Gabriel loosened his tie, setting it on the counter. “Traffic,” he lied with a tired grin.

  Charlotte shut off the faucet and dried her hands on a towel. “There’s pasta left if you want it.”

  He shook his head. “Not hungry.”

  She raised an eyebrow, playful. “You? Passing up food? That’s a first.”

  Gabriel leaned down and kissed her cheek, muttering, “Don’t tempt me.”

  Her smile lingered as she brushed her hand across his arm. “Alright then. But at least sit for a while. You look like you’re running on fumes.”

  “I’ll sit,” he promised, sinking into the chair by the table.

  A few papers slipped from his bag, so he gathered them and pulled a pen from his pocket. Charlotte tilted her head, watching him mark the margins in silence.

  “Don’t stay up with those all night,” she said gently. “Bed’s warmer than that table.”

  He nodded, not looking up. “Just a few more.”

  Charlotte gave him a soft look, half-teasing, half fond. “You say that every night.” She brushed his shoulder as she passed him on the way out. The bedroom door clicked shut, leaving the house quiet except for the hum of the fridge.

  Gabriel exhaled, long and low, flipping to the following paper. Paul’s poem sat on top. He reread it, slower this time, his pen hovering. The words clung to him in a way the others hadn’t.

  He closed the folder at last, rubbing his eyes. Charlotte’s voice echoed from earlier. The bed’s warmer than that table. With a weary sigh, Gabriel stacked the papers neatly and pushed himself up from the chair.

  Gabriel slid under the covers, the quiet weight of the day pressing into him. Charlotte’s steady breathing filled the room within minutes, but his eyes stayed open, following the ceiling shadows cast by the streetlight outside. He let them blur, his thoughts drifting.

  Sleep pulled him under slowly, and when he surfaced again, the air smelled like cut grass and summer dust. He was lying on his back in a vast, open field, the sky sharp and endless above him. His friends lounged nearby, sprawled out in the cool night. They were young again—late teens, restless, alive with the kind of energy that only came from nights like this.

  The moon hung fat and pale over the treeline, washing the field in silver. The air was cool but carried the faint warmth of the day, each breath tinged with the smell of earth. Crickets sang steadily, low, while fireflies flickered lazily above the grass, drifting like sparks shaken from an unseen fire.

  One of his friends lifted an arm, pointing upward.

  “The Big Dipper,” he said, grinning at the constellation.

  Another snorted, tugging a blade of grass between his teeth. “That’s not the Big Dipper. That’s, like, half a spoon at best.”

  Laughter flickered, then settled. Crickets droned. Fireflies blinked across the grass, slow and aimless.

  A streak of light ripped through the dark—a thin flash across the stars before burning out.

  The third voice cut in, uncertain. “…Meteor or meteorite?”

  “Shit, what’s the difference?” the first said.

  The second rolled onto his side. “One hits the ground. Other just dies up there.”

  “Yeah? Then I’m hoping it’s the second. Last thing you need is a rock smashing your mom’s roof again.”

  The third cracked a grin. “Nope. That was my stepdad falling off the roof—again. Right after he made us watch Close Encounters of the Third Kind.”

  They all burst out laughing, fireflies drifting through the air as they lay on their backs, the night alive with summer hum.

  Gabriel wiped his eyes, still chuckling. “You ever think… if we’ve got meteors, maybe people on other planets do too? Just lying out, looking up, making wishes?”

  “There’s no such thing as aliens,” one said firmly, kicking at the grass.

  “Yeah?” the other shot back. “My dad swore he saw a UFO last summer—thing was dancing around the cornfields.”

  “Or maybe your dad was the one dancing. On ketamine,” the third cut in, deadpan.

  Laughter cracked again, rolling under the stars before quiet settled back in, fireflies blinking in the silence.

  The laughter faded, leaving only the hum of crickets and the quiet flicker of fireflies around them. For a while, no one spoke.

  Then one voice broke the stillness. “Out of all those places out there… there’s gotta be one, right? One with people like us.”

  Another chimed in, softer, like the thought unnerved him. “You think maybe they’re lying on their backs too? Staring at their little lights, wondering the same thing?”

  Gabriel’s eyes stayed locked on the sky. “I don’t know,” he said quietly. “But I wish I could go. Just once. See space for myself.”

  The fireflies drifted higher, blinking like echoes of the stars above, as silence folded back over them.

  A warm breeze drifted across the field, carrying the faint smell of cut grass. The boys shifted on their backs, jackets rustling against the dirt.

  One of them nudged Gabriel with his elbow, smirking in the dark. “Alright, Gates… say you actually make it up there. You taking me as your plus one, or what?”

  The others chuckled, waiting for Gabriel’s answer, the sky endless above them.

  Gabriel turned his head, studying him in the faint moonlight. His voice came quiet, almost swallowed by the night. “I wish. But I could never dream of getting that chance.”

  The words lingered, heavier than the laughter that had come before.

  For a moment, nobody spoke. Then one of the boys exhaled, folding his arms behind his head. “Makes sense. There’s no way anyone’s getting to any of those lights in our lifetime.”

  The others let the words sit, eyes still pinned to the sky. The field felt bigger in the silence, the stars farther out of reach.

  “I don’t care about space,” one of the boys said after a beat. “I just want to own a shop one day. Fix cars. Something that’s mine, you know? Not stuck under someone else’s thumb.”

  Another boy nodded, then smirked toward Gabriel. “Alright then, Dreamer. Your turn. What’s the big plan?”

  Gabriel turned his head, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Easy. My dream is helping you figure out yours. Somebody’s gotta do it.”

  The boys burst out laughing, one shoving his shoulder.

  The first kid shook his head, still chuckling. “Nothing wrong with that. Helping run my dad’s shop—that’s all I want. Making him proud… that’s a good enough dream for me.”

  “Look—another one, but bigger!” one of them shouted, sitting up and pointing across the sky.

  Another boy laughed, tossing a hand in the air. “Make a wish, Dreamer!”

  Gabriel’s eyes followed the streak of light as it cut across the night, burning bright before fading into nothing. For a moment, he held his breath.

  ?

  His eyes snapped open. The room was dark, his chest tight. The dream lingered, stars still etched against his vision. He lay there a moment, staring at the ceiling, the echo of their voices in his head.

  The faint rattle of the heater. The soft creak of the house settling. Charlotte’s steady breathing in the next room. Ordinary sounds, but they felt a world away from what pressed against his chest.

  After a long moment, he slid from the bed, moving carefully so the floorboards wouldn’t complain. He gathered his keys, a clean shirt, and the stack of poems from his work bag. The pages rustled as he tucked them under his arm.

  Outside, the air was sharper, cleaner. He climbed into his truck, the vinyl seat cold against his back, and turned the key. The old engine grumbled awake.

  He pulled out of the driveway and headed past the sleeping houses, the town falling away behind him. Soon the road narrowed, the pavement giving way to dirt. He rolled down the window, letting the night air rush in, stars wheeling overhead.

  For a long moment he just sat there, the page trembling in his hands, the night sky opening above him.

  A cricket chirped from the tall grass, then another, a scattered chorus carrying through the dark. A warm breeze drifted over the truck bed, tugging at the edge of the paper. Gabriel pressed it flat with his palm, eyes narrowing as though the air itself was telling him not to let this one slip.

  He reached into his bag, fingers brushing past stray papers until they found a pen. The click sounded louder than it should have.

  Gabriel exhaled, steadied his hand, and lowered the pen to the back of the page.

  “Dear Dreamer…”

  The words scratched across the page, faint under the weight of his pen. Gabriel sat hunched in the truck bed, the stars above sharp and endless. He paused once, pressing the heel of his hand against his brow, then leaned back down.

  The crickets carried on. The warm breeze rolled through the field again, tugging at the edges of the paper as his hand moved steadily, line after line.

  Under the stars, Gabriel’s pen didn’t stop. Line after line, he wrote into the night until his hand ached, until the world itself seemed to fall silent with him.

  Then silence shifted. The page shuddered in his grip. The hum of crickets turned into the rattle of a car vent, the warmth of the breeze into the stale chill of a Cadillac cabin. A teardrop struck the paper, blurring the ink into gray.

  The heater rattled weakly, coughing lukewarm air that never reached him. Frost crept at the edges of the windshield, the glass vibrating with every gust outside. The smell of old leather and gasoline clung to him, heavy as the silence.

  He wiped at his cheek, but the weight in his chest stayed, pressing down harder than hunger ever could.