At the end of my first semester of college, my dad and two of my high school friends drove from our hometown in Ashtabula, Ohio, to my school in Richmond, Indiana, to pick me up and drive me back home for winter break.
When I saw Dad’s car pull into the dorm’s parking lot, I felt a flicker of fear. Don’t worry about the dream, I told myself. Dad will be driving for sure. The car was Dad’s pride and joy. It was the first new car he’d ever bought and only three years old. I grabbed my bags and walked down to meet them. My friends jumped out and gave me big bear hugs, joking around and laughing. Dad was the last to greet me with a solid handshake and a tired smile.
“Why don’t you drive?” Dad said. “I woke up early. You’ll be fresher than me.”
I stared back at him dumbly.
“Something wrong?” he said.
“No, I’m fine,” I assured him.
But my hand trembled as he handed me the keys, the dream from the night before still fresh in my mind. I’d been driving this very car. Dad was in the passenger seat, and my two friends had been in the back. It was early evening, and I was on a two-lane road, not the interstate that I typically took home. Rising out of the darkness was a white sign with black lettering that read, “Plain City.” The road curved right onto a large steel bridge, and two cars passed by in the oncoming lane, preceding an approaching tractor-trailer truck.
I steered the car into the turn, but with a sickly thud, the right front and back tires slipped off the road and onto a steep gravel berm. I panicked, turning the steering wheel hard to the left, jerking the car out of the berm and into oncoming traffic. The tractor-trailer was now veering toward me. I felt fear and impending doom. I waited for impact—
I woke with my heart pounding. It had felt so real. Was Plain City a real place? If it was, I’d never heard of it. I calmed down a bit, relieved that it had all been a dream.
“Ready?” Dad said, bringing me back to the present. I nodded, started the car, and pulled out of the parking lot to begin the five-hour drive. I was determined to drive cautiously and responsibly behind the wheel of Dad’s prized vehicle.
We crossed the Ohio state line. We’d been on Interstate 70 for about an hour when Dad said, “Take this exit on the highway. That way, we’ll bypass Columbus and rush hour traffic.”
“Okay,” I said. It was getting dark. I switched on the headlights and exited onto Route 42, a two-lane road. My friends and I shared old stories from our high school football days, and I was feeling more relaxed than I’d been at the beginning of the trip. I drove for about another 20 minutes, miles from any city. The sky was pitch dark. Ahead, I saw that we were approaching a small town. My headlights illuminated a road sign. It was white with black letters: Plain City.
My stomach dropped as the road curved to the right over a steel bridge. Two cars rounded the bend, and I began to turn, then—thud! The right wheels of Dad’s car veered off the road and onto a steep berm, spinning in the gravel.
As if by muscle memory, I didn’t try to correct the car. I knew what to do. I kept the wheel straight, driving partly onto the berm. A tractor-trailer rounded the bend and whizzed past.
After it went by, I methodically steered the car back onto the road and continued over the bridge.
“Wow, it’s good you didn’t overcorrect,” Dad said. “You might’ve hit that truck.”
Finally, it all made sense. That dream. It wasn’t just some sleep-addled craziness. It was a warning, meant just for me.
