[ WP ] The border between reality and the imagination is weakening , and you have to deal with it .

They are at the dock. Ben is watching the horizon, waiting for the ferry to arrive. The breeze comes cold off the water, off the lake. Behind him Duluth sits in a bank fog. Strong beams of sunlight pierce the clouds and reflect off the windows of buildings along the waterfront. A woman takes Ben's hand. Emily, her hair up, her eyes wide. She is wearing a heavy down coat. 
 
 Are n't you cold? she says. She takes his parka from a suitcase and hands it to him. He pulls it on over his suit. Snow begins to fall from the fog and in the thin lines of morning sun the flakes sparkle like diamonds. 
 
 When will we get there? Emily says. 
 
 Ben reaches into his pocket and pulls out his ticket. Tomorrow, he says. 
 
 What? 
 
 Ben looks up, but now his wife is gone. Instead, his son, middle-aged and balding and soggy at the midsection, is spreading butter on a wedge of bread. They are in a dining room, and it looks familiar, but Ben can not remember why. Tomorrow, Ben says again. 
 
 What's tomorrow? his son says. He takes a bite out of the piece of bread. Crumbs tumble from his mouth. Why are you wearing two shirts? 

