In August 1992, I was 22 and living on my own for the first time. My father had died two weeks earlier, and I was having trouble adjusting both to his death and my recent move to a quiet one-bedroom in Alexandria. One night, I dreamt that I woke up and my father was sitting next to my bed. He told me that he was doing fine and that I needed to take care of my mother. I couldn't think of anything to say back to him, so I defaulted to a subject on which I'd always sought his counsel: auto maintenance. I told him my Honda was pulling to the right when I pressed the brakes. He said: "It's your rotors. They need to be replaced." The next morning, I dismissed this as a strange but pleasant dream. What the heck was a rotor, anyway? Then, three weeks later, having forgotten the dream entirely, I dropped off my Honda at the service station next to my office. I got a phone call later that day: "Hi, Ms. Scott, this is Joe from the Exxon. I think we figured out what's wrong with your car. It's your rotors. They need to be replaced." I don't think I was able to speak for a full minute.

Christy Keefe, Burke

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