She reached over and nudged her husband in the back. She’d had a horrible dream. Then she realized it was no dream. It wasn’t her husband sleeping next to her, but her daughter. Meiko hadn’t slept with her since she was ten years old. She stared through the overhead hatch and studied the heavens. He’d never hold her again, never comfort her. They’d never sail the world together, never explore the South Pacific, never walk together again, never talk again, never make love again. “Oh, Hideo,” she quietly sobbed, “I love you so much.” Her alarm had been set to pick him up at the airport, something she wouldn’t have to do. She closed her eyes over the mist and willed herself back to sleep, listening to her own heartbeat. Then she heard a quiet noise. Wood sliding against wood. Her eyes popped open, but she lay still, staring at the heavens. A satellite moved overhead, going from west to east, as bright as any star. She took shallow breaths, and she heard the sound again.
