The Last Ride Home

When I was 37, I flew back to my hometown for my high school reunion. The nearest airport was about 35 miles from town, so I rented a car and set off through a long stretch of deserted, rural highway. It was one of those quiet roads where the only sounds were the hum of the engine and the wind sweeping across endless fields.

About three miles outside of town, I saw someone standing by the side of the road, waving me down. As I slowed, recognition hit me—it was Jim, a guy I hadn’t seen since high school. He looked... almost the same, just a bit older, his features frozen somewhere between memory and reality.

“Need a ride?” I asked, rolling down the window.

He smiled that familiar, easy smile and slid into the passenger seat. We started talking, reminiscing about old friends and teachers. His voice was calm, measured, and oddly distant—like he was recalling something from long ago.

When we reached town, I asked, “Wanna come to the Veterans of Foreign Wars? A bunch of people from school are meeting there.”

He shook his head. “Nah... just take me home.”

I instinctively turned toward the old neighborhood where his parents used to live, but he stopped me. “Not there,” he said quietly. “Take me to the outskirts.”

Confused but not wanting to press, I followed his instructions down an old dirt road toward a run-down mobile home park I vaguely remembered being built after I left town. The air felt colder out there, and the wind whispered through the tall grass like it was sharing secrets.

“This is fine,” he said as we reached a dark, empty stretch near the park entrance. “It was good seeing you again.” Without another word, he got out and walked into the shadows until he disappeared.

Shrugging it off, I headed to the Veterans of Foreign Wars, excited to see old classmates. The place was lively—familiar faces, laughter, and old music playing from the karaoke stage. We drank, shared stories, and talked about who had made it to the reunion.

Casually, I mentioned picking Jim up on the side of the road.

The entire room went silent.

Even the guy singing karaoke dropped the mic.

My cousin’s face turned ghostly pale. “Barb... Jim died on that curve eight years ago. Rolled his car. We were all at his funeral.”

I felt the room spinning. My skin prickled with icy dread. “No... that’s impossible,” I stammered.

Heart pounding, I stumbled outside into the cool night air, gasping for breath. I fumbled for my keys and opened the car door, desperate for some grounding sense of reality.

That’s when I saw it—neatly folded on the passenger seat where Jim had sat... an old, yellowed copy of the local newspaper.

The date was eight years earlier.

Right there, on the front page, was Jim’s obituary.

His picture stared back at me, the same familiar smile he’d given me just hours before.

I still have that newspaper. And sometimes, late at night, I wonder... did I give him one last ride home?