When I was around seven my Grandmother took care of a baby whose mother was an alcoholic and drug addict. This woman would bring her child (let's call him John) to my Grandmothers house and leave him there for months at a time. Needless to say our family became very attached and thought of him as part of the family. His mother came to get him one night and her drunk boyfriend flips the car. John was in a coma for about 3 or 4 days. One night my older brother wakes everyone in the house up screaming and crying saying that John is dead. Once my parents get him calmed down, he tells them that John came into his room crying, saying that he has to leave but he is scared and wants my brother to come with him. While my parents are trying to convince my brother that it was just a dream, the phone rings and it is my uncle calling from the hospital to inform us that John had died. This happened over 30 years ago but I still get goosebumps thinking about it.