I finished my cereal, carefully masking my internal triumph with a look of dutiful academic stress.
"Good luck on your French test, Luna," my mom said as I grabbed my History book.
"Thanks, Mom. I'm hitting the library after school to focus on Algebra II prep," I said, cementing my after-school commitment to studying. A slight exaggeration, but necessary.
I bid them both off and walked out the door, my backpack heavy, but my spirit light. French history was on the agenda for the school day, but my real test—the test of nerve, stealth, and destiny—was scheduled for tomorrow night. I was internally convinced, prepared, and ready to unlock the truth.
I was walking across the quad with Chloe and Rishi, recounting a particularly humorous moment from the French test (apparently, I mistook Marie Antoinette for a fashion blogger). The Algebra II makeup was dominating my thoughts, but the excitement of my new plan for tomorrow night was a humming undercurrent.
"Did you guys hear about that huge wreck on the 84 last night?" Rishi asked, suddenly serious. "My dad was talking about it. A massive hit-and-run involving an SUV and a small sedan. Sounded brutal."
The casual shift in topic hit me with an odd, disproportionate force. The word "hit-and-run" felt too close to the intentional, violent energy that had been haunting my dreams.
"No, I didn't," I said, slowing my pace. "Was anyone hurt badly?"
"Yeah, that's the thing," Chloe said, shaking her head. "They said the driver of the sedan was rushed to the city hospital. Severe injuries. Apparently, he's in a coma."
The details were vague, just fragmented pieces of local news chatter, but they settled like lead in my stomach. The violence, the lack of accountability—it resonated with the malicious feeling of the dream. I felt a sudden, profound wave of sadness, a deep, unsettling empathy for a total stranger.
"That's awful," I murmured. "Did they catch the person who did it?"
"Nope. Clean getaway, according to the news," Rishi replied.
"Police are baffled. It's like the SUV just vanished into thin air."
My internal monologue: Vanished into thin air. An accident that doesn't feel like one. A silent act of violence. I tried to shake the feeling that this was connected to the chaotic energy I'd sensed, the way the handsome man in my dream had simply appeared and then vanished. It was probably just the local news coverage being dramatic, but I found myself silently praying for his recovery. I hoped the stranger, whoever he was, found the strength to wake up.