It was midmorning, or maybe noon, and a light drizzle fell on the car, misting the windshield. The sky was overcast and fog surrounded the vehicle, so that it almost seemed to be floating in a small sphere of whiteness and wet pavement. Time seemed to have little meaning on that strip of highway. There were no road sounds, not even the hush of the air conditioning; just a strange, muffled silence. Wash stared at his hands on the wheel. Denise sat quietly in the passenger seat.

Denise...

He turned to her then, to say something. They were driving to work, or maybe to the supermarket. Everything was as it should be, except for the oppressive fog and the eerie quiet. He took in a breath.

"I...I'm sorry, honey, I'm so sorry." What? That wasn't what he'd meant to say. He tried again, clearing his throat. "God, I miss you." His chest felt heavy, so heavy, and he could feel tears streaming down his cheeks. Denise continued to stare ahead, unresponsive. Wash was overwhelmed with sorrow, but he didn't know why.

He remained frozen there, staring at her, ignoring the road. Were they even moving? He finally let go of the steering, clutching his arms with his hands, muscles cording, as if he were trying to keep himself from breaking apart. The tighter he held himself, though, the deeper his pain - an old wound, torn open. He was sobbing now, open mouthed and shaking brokenly. He knew she was sitting there, right next to him, but it was like a TV with bad reception, as if he could only get one part in focus, and the rest was hazy.

The fog was everywhere now.

"I want to come back, God, I want to come back. Please, I'm so sorry, I'll do anything, just please, please come back." He was babbling now, a torrent of words that he didn't know how to stop. "I can't do this anymore, I can't stand it." Do what, stand what? A part of him wondered. She was here, right next to him. It was fine, everything was fine, he'd been let out of jail and gone home, and they were driving to...

Driving to nowhere. He could hardly see her anymore, as everything was slowly swallowed by the whiteness. He tried to stop the flood of memories, as he became increasingly aware. Wash let go of himself and reached out toward her, trying to control his descent into consciousness, to hold on to the moment.

"God, I was so wrong. I was wrong about everything; I should have never left. I should have called, should have told you, I shoulda come back." Her eyes flickered to him then, a hint of recognition, of pain, and then it was all gone.

Wash lay in a tangle of sheets, slowly opening his eyes. His cheek rested against a damp spot on his pillow. He didn't have to wipe his eyes to know it was tears. He stared bleakly at the far wall of his tiny room at Deus Ex headquarters, and let himself be lost for a moment in that dream. Maybe he'd contacted her, somehow - that last look had seemed so real. Maybe she was alright. He let the thought take root in his mind, a cold comfort, and let his gaze wander to his desk. The notebook was still there. It'd been a week since he'd written that letter - a week plagued with similar dreams, a week of restless nights.

A hand slid out of the covers, reaching for the wallet that lay open on the nightstand. His probing touch brushed the little alligator penlight next to it, and he felt a flare of recognition - one he quickly shoved away. It fell to the floor, and the contact faded. He didn't want Sally, she couldn't be her. Wash pulled the little leather folio with it's precious photos close, pressing it to his face, breathing in the musky scent of the leather. It was already open to her photo. Her bright, smiling face seemed to gaze indifferently on his bleary tear-stained one.

He cupped it in his hands, like a sacred offering, and held it close to his chest. It had seemed so real, and he wished he could go back to the comfortable lies the dream had presented - and that was what was most cruel. As much pain as it caused him, as much as it cost him to have it paraded before him night after night- it was still a dream, and not a nightmare. An ideal. Something he'd lost. Something he'd thrown away.

He felt a pang of guilt - the dreams were always about Denise, but hardly ever about Daniel. But that was fair, wasn't it? After all, it had always been Denise before it was Daniel, and as much as he loved his little boy, he was doing all this for him, wasn't he? But it wasn't his name he woke up to, chanting it softly into the night, a fervent prayer.

It was hers.