My Car Is Not Broken

I grabbed my purse, my lunch, my cardigan, my keys and... No.

I couldn't leave for work. My car was broken. David would have to drive me (and he was eons from being ready!). It broke last night. In low gear, it quietly ground to an engineless stop, and in high gear it coughed and spluttered a lot, like not all the pistons were firing all the time. It did this yesterday, when I was driving in that hilly part by the kids' school... No.

I didn't drive by the kids' school last night.

I had made it to the stairs to tell the husband that he'd have to drive me in, that my car was broken, before I remembered: It was just a dream.

The thing it was telling me almost certainly has got nothing to do with my automobile.