As a child, I told my mother a plane would crash. The next day it was on every news channel. Last year, driving with my husband, I told him to slow down because I could sense a car crash ahead. About five miles down the road, one happened in front of us. These were not dramatic revelations. They arrived quietly, as information, the way you might suddenly remember you left the oven on. No ceremony. No altered state. Just knowing before there was any conventional way to know.