The Last Delivery

Nearly two decades have slipped by since I drove a delivery truck for a niche sparkling water company, my route winding through the dry, dusty outskirts of Marble Falls, Texas. Most days were a blur of heat and repetition, but I’ve always had a knack for feeling what’s coming—a twitch in my gut that warned me of a flat tire, a sudden chill before a storm. Those little nudges came and went, mostly harmless, and I’d long since learned to ignore them.

Then came that August night. In my dream, I was rolling down County Road 12, past the old collapsed barn with its rusty silo, when a semi running without lights T-boned my truck at the intersection. The impact was a sickening crush of metal, and I felt my ribs snap, tasted blood. I floated above the wreck, watching my own body crumpled in the driver’s seat, and a voice—dry as the prairie wind—whispered, ‘You’re done.’ I woke gasping, my sheets soaked, the phantom pain still ringing in my bones.

I tried to shake it off, but the feeling clung like burrs. My wife, Carlene, noticed my silence at breakfast and asked what was wrong. I brushed it aside, but when I climbed into my truck that morning, I couldn’t ignore the dread pooling in my stomach. As I drove my usual route, every landmark seemed to sing with menace. The sun-baked asphalt shimmered like a mirage, and the thought of taking County Road 12 made my skin prickle.

I had a choice: follow my route, which veered onto County Road 12 to reach the Millers’ farm, or take the longer, desolate Loop 9, which would add an hour and break my schedule. The dream pressed on me, and I felt a perverse urge to test it—to see if I could outrun fate. So I turned onto Loop 9, driving slower than usual, scanning the empty fields for any sign of trouble.

About ten minutes later, I saw a flicker of movement on the horizon—a plume of smoke climbing into the hazy sky. As I drew nearer, I found a fiery wreck: a black semi lying on its side, its cab engulfed in flames, and my usual delivery van, which I’d almost driven that day, now a twisted metal carcass against the guardrail. The semi’s driver must have swerved to miss a deer and lost control, right at the same intersection where I would have been.

I pulled over and dialed 911, my hands shaking. When the emergency crews arrived, they found no survivors—both drivers dead. I stood there, staring at the smoldering remains, and I knew with absolute certainty: if I hadn’t listened to that dream, I’d have been one of them. My instincts had never been so loud, and I’d never doubted them since.

But the strangest part wasn’t the accident. It was the few seconds before I saw the wreckage, when my radio crackled and a voice, barely audible through static, said, ‘Wrong road, delivery man.’ I turned to see an old man in my passenger seat, a gnarled hand on the dashboard, his eyes like two dried-up wells. He vanished a moment later, but his words stayed with me. I never spoke of him, not even to Carlene, and I gave up that route entirely. Sometimes, when I drive through Marble Falls at night, I catch a glimpse of that same spectral figure in my rearview, and I know—he’s still waiting for me to take the right road.