The highway Merge and the shattered Windshield

"I dreamed I was pressing hard on the gas to merge onto a roaring, congested highway ramp, gripping the steering wheel so tight my knuckles turned white, though I had no idea where I was even trying to go. Suddenly, the brake lights of a sedan flared blindingly right in front of my bumper, and I violently jerked the wheel left to avoid slamming into it. My tires screeched as the car mounted the concrete barrier of the overpass, tipping over the ledge into open air. Everything instantly shifted into a brutal, slow-motion crawl—I could see individual specks of dust swirling in the air and the wide, terrified eyes of a driver in a red car looking straight up through my glass. Then the windshield caved inward with a deafening crack, a blinding flash filled my eyes, and the entire world abruptly cut out to absolute nothingness. I jolted awake gasping for air, my heart pounding violently against my ribs as I gripped the blankets like a steering wheel. Lying there in the dark drenched in sweat, it took me a long, terrifying moment to realize the silence of my bedroom meant I hadn't actually crashed."