Chapter 1: The Dream That Saved Me

When I was seven, on New Year’s Eve, that was the first time Grandpa ever visited me in a dream:

I’ll never forget that night. The Christmas tree lights were still twinkling in the living room, and outside, everything was muffled under a fresh blanket of snow. For a second, it was like the whole world was holding its breath. Then, in my dream, Grandpa stood at the foot of my bed, his voice as clear as if he were still alive: “Don’t eat the third dish at Christmas dinner.”

I jolted awake, heart pounding, his words stuck with me—I couldn’t shake what he said. No one believed me, and my parents even snapped at me for killing the holiday spirit. I didn’t mean to ruin anything.

Mom was in the kitchen, humming along to Bing Crosby, while Dad just rolled his eyes and told me to quit making up spooky stories. My cousins laughed, pelting me with wadded-up napkins. I just sat there, feeling like the punchline to some inside joke I’d never get. For a second, I wondered if I’d ever fit in.

I stared at that platter of barbecue ribs. My mouth was watering, but I forced myself not to touch it.

God, it was torture—the sweet, smoky smell, that caramelized crust making my stomach growl. I sat at the table, hands in my lap, watching everyone else dig in. I could almost taste the sauce, but Grandpa’s warning echoed in my head. I didn’t take a single bite.

In the end, everyone in the family got food poisoning and ended up in the ER—except for me.

I still remember the chaos: sirens in the driveway, my little cousin puking into a stocking—I’ll never forget that—my dad clutching his stomach and groaning. Nurses in scrubs wheeled everyone into the ER, holiday sweaters and all. I sat in the waiting room, sipping ginger ale, the only one who wasn’t doubled over in pain.

Twenty years later, after I lost my job, Grandpa visited me in a dream for the second time.

This time, it was late January. The city was crusted with dirty snow, and I’d just been let go. That night, Grandpa’s voice cut through my sleep—warm as ever, matter-of-fact. “There’s gold hidden in the wall of the old house. Don’t tell anyone.”

“Eli, if you make it big, don’t forget about us.”

There was a beat of silence, heavy and real. “Of course, Grandpa. I won’t.”

He smiled, the way his eyes always crinkled when he smiled, and then faded away. I woke up with the taste of old pipe smoke in the air, as if he’d just been there. For a second, I wondered if I’d dreamed it all.

Surrounded by my coworkers’ awkward hugs and well-meaning goodbyes, I carried a cardboard box into the elevator. My smile collapsed as soon as the doors slid shut. I couldn’t fake it anymore.

The elevator ride felt endless. My desk plant, a mug, a stack of dog-eared resumes. All jumbled in the box. Someone patted my back and said, “Keep in touch.” I could barely look them in the eye. When the doors closed, I let out a shaky breath and let my mask fall away.

Honestly, earlier, I’d bragged to my relatives that I’d be driving home in a new car for the holidays.

I’d even texted my dad a picture of the car I wanted, promising I’d roll up in something shiny and American-made. Now, that dream was out the window, and I had no clue how I’d explain it to my folks. So much for that.

I sat in the subway station under my office for half an hour, then it hit me.