Remember?

June 12th 1967. That’s when the fever broke. So I’m told. Nothing really makes any sense since my gravestone records my death as June 12th 1967.

Really. I’m standing in front of it. My wife grabs my arm, “It’s not you, not today, anyway. Maybe soon.” Smiles, and disappears into the foggy morning.

I awake in a sweat, relieved. “Oh it’s just a bad dream.”

Wipe the sweat away and wish for a better day. It’s still dark outside. The alarm reads “June 12th 1967.”