I stood in a green field before an antique blue bus from the 1950s. Its open passenger door seemed to invite me to drive, though I knew deep inside it was not my bus. Despite my resistance, the pull became irresistible. I boarded, took the driver’s seat, and drove away.

Glancing at the dashboard, I saw the fuel gauge was empty. Ahead was a gas station crowded with semi-trucks. When I reached the lot, I realized the pumps were broken and the trucks were instead navigating a massive field filled with long, deep ditches. Narrow strips of land ran between them, and each vehicle carefully chose a lane to avoid falling in.

With no way back, I entered a lane. Near the end, a man told me I was in the wrong one and needed to turn around. As I slowly attempted to do so, the ground gave way and the left side of the bus tipped into a ditch. Fear gripped me, intensified by the knowledge that the bus was not mine. I escaped through the passenger door, and the man told me to go to the station for help.

Inside, a group of men immediately united to recover the bus. As they descended with heavy chains and pulled together, my fear grew that they would discover the truth. I slipped to the back of the bus, opened an exterior compartment, and found it filled with receipts. Two caught my eye: one labeled Eusebius, AL, the other Omnibus, AL. Confused and overwhelmed, I fled toward the trees at the edge of the field.

The same man appeared again and asked where I was going. I confessed, “I don’t own that bus.” He replied calmly, “I know.” At that moment, a radiant woman in white emerged from the forest. The man said, “This is Eusebius Omnibus, the owner of the bus. She has chosen you to drive.”

We returned to the lane, where the bus stood restored, unharmed, and full of fuel. She motioned for me to get in and joined me aboard. I started the bus—and then I woke up.