My cousin and I once drove into the woods on the outskirts of our family farm in the Appalachian mountains.

We built a campfire and stayed there for hours talking and watching stars, shooting bottle-rockets into the sky.

I remember it went quiet and suddenly I was in a concrete tunnel. It was very cold. I could feel the water snaking down my back as it dripped from the ceiling. A train appeared, heading directly for me, its wheels shrieking and sparking.

I stood frozen in its headlights like a stunned deer.

Just as I thought I would certainly be flattened, my eyes came into focus. I realized I was staring at the reflection of the firelight on my cousin's pick-up truck.

Recently, someone suggested that subconsciously I might have been trying to remember my birth.