Devil in a station wagon.

I used to get sick a lot as a kid. Doctors said I had a weakened immune system. Maybe it was all the McDonalds or honey buns and Yoo-Hoo. Whatever it was, my body had to work extra hard to fight off even the common cold.

Every cough, sneeze, or snotty nose bubble was a hold your breath moment. Blowing my nose often precluded a week of bed rest where I’d have the same three visitors: My mother with soup and a cold towel, my friend from down the street who I hadn’t actually played with in years but whose parents probably made him come visit me.

And the devil.

While in sick, I would slip into coma-like deep sleep states. My body would throttle down everything that wasn’t completely necessary and get to work fighting whatever invaders I’d taken in.

And the race for my soul would begin.

Pedaling my BMX bike next to some swanky new subdivision. A bike far nicer than any I ever owned. And a subdivision I’m still not welcome in as an adult. I’m convinced this part of the dream was inspired by the chase scene in ET.

Standing on the pedals pumping my legs I would climb the embankment. Not really a road, but a packed dirt path construction trucks would use to bring in the lumber and cement and ornate tile for the big houses below.

And then the station wagon would appear. Its engine would roar behind me as the playing card on my rear wheel went tat-tat-tat-tat-tat. Gaining on me like a lunging predator, the wood-panneled shoebox on wheels would nip at my heels.

Panic washing over me like a cold sweat, I would look pleadingly to the driver. I’m riding my bike here, huh…?

Staring back at me was a face even God would cast out. Red skin wrapped loosely around a mouth of sharp teeth — smiling. Nostril like a pig’s — swelling, snorting. His eyes shifted constantly while never losing their laser focus on me.

Pulling up alongside me he would wail and cackle and scream, but the station wagon must have been some mobile vacuum because no sound ever escaped.

Rounding the rim of the construction, his front bumper would kiss my rear tire. Prodding me, telling me he could run over and crush me at any time. And I would make the same decision every time I had this dream.

Rather than be run down by this devil in a station wagon, I would take a sharp right, steering my bike into the ravine. Tumbling, gaining speed, recklessly plummeting into the construction site.

And then I would wake up. My fever would be gone. My mom would be gone. My friend, gone. I would lay in bed gasping, eyes wide with terror. What would have happened if he’d caught me?