Fatal accident in the winter

I woke up just past 3:30 a.m.

I'd been out in the woods in a carriage of some sort, when it overturned and we were spilled out onto the hillside. I remember scrambling over and helping a few people to their feet and get back to the road, satisfied that they were all right.

That was when I saw a sled overturned in the icy water. I scrambled over to the sled, crawling as quickly as I could across a log, and turned the sled upright.

Rachel was lying under the sled, in her purple winter jacket. Her hair was wet, her eyes were closed, and she wasn't breathing.

"She's not breathing," I said as I carried her up to the road, trying to recall my CPR training from 20 years ago. "She's not breathing!"

I woke up. I was in bed, next to my wife, her presence an assurance from her presence that everything was all right.

That wasn't enough. I jumped out of bed, and went to Rachel's bedroom. I knelt next to her bed, and didn't move until I heard her soft breathing in the night, saw her stretch an arm and sleepily kick a leg. Then, and only then, was I willing to believe that everything was all right.

I hate it when dreams scare the bejesus out of me.