Let's go back to May 1979, Cincinnati, Ohio.

Now, picture a guy named David Booth.

He's a regular guy, regular job, living a regular life.

But that's the thing.

He's thoughtful, quiet, the kind of person who pays attention to things other people ignore.

The type of person who wouldn't normally jump to wild conclusions.

So when David starts having these dreams, he knows something's wrong. It begins one night without

warning. He goes to bed, like always, but the second he falls asleep, he's somewhere else. He's not

in his room. He's standing near an airport runway,

watching. There's a large jet, an American Airlines jet, and it starts its takeoff. It picks up

speed, it lifts off the ground, and then suddenly it banks hard to the left, unnatural, violent,

and before anyone could do anything, the plane slams into the ground

and erupts into a fireball, smoke, flames, destruction, the kind of crash where you know

no one survives.

The whole thing unfolds with this terrifying clarity, like he's not dreaming at all, but witnessing

something that already happened,

or maybe about to happen.

And so he jerks awake, hearts racing, drenched in sweat, that kind of dream where the feeling

follows you all day.

At first he tries to move on.

It was just a dream, right?

But then the second night hits and the exact

...