When I was six years old and living in Bochum, Germany, my biggest joy was visiting my friend Azra. Her brother was a little bit younger than us, but we were extremely close to him. A year later, Azra's family moved to Bosnia. Being only six, I didn't think of it as a big deal. A year later, it was my turn to move. My family ended up in Michigan, where I had to meet new people and learn a new language. This all kept me busy for a few years, and I almost forgot about Azra and her family. One afternoon, I heard my dad talking quietly on the phone in his office. He looked upset. When he hung up, he told me that Azra's little brother Armin had just been killed in a brutal car crash. In shock, I walked to my room and sat on the bed. I was too upset to cry. I sat, staring into space, and must have drifted to sleep. When I opened my eyes, Armin was in my room. He wore blue jeans and a red shirt, and he had blood on his face. My mother assured me that it was just a dream, but it seemed so real. The next time I was on the computer, I sent an email to Azra. I asked her to tell me what her brother had worn the last time she saw him. Sure enough, he'd been wearing blue jeans and a red shirt.

Ema, MI