Chapter One: It Shouldn't Happen to Us
This is the recurrent nightmare:
I am inside my father's Morris Minor convertible, scarcely filling the driver's seat, and the oyster gray automobile is hurtling, helter-skelter, down a steep hill.
My hands can neither hold the steering wheel nor grasp the stick shift, and my feet dangle uselessly, high above the pedals. The car is going so fast I am unable to see anything through the windows except a rushing, murky blur, a whizzing smudge of motion.
The dream has no beginning or end, just movement and terror.
The nocturnal scenario is now unreeling in broad daylight, in...