I'm in Baton Rouge, in my Grandpa's driveway. Across the street, my old roommate Lee is strapping a turbine-powered jetpack to his back, with his arms threaded through Da Vinci-esque wings. The turbine on his right wing suddenly overdrives, tearing his right arm out of the shoulder socket. He picks his arm up and gives it to me to carry to my car, and slightly panicked, we race to a hospital.
The problem is, I've forgotten how to navigate Baton Rouge, and I cannot get to the hospital. Or should I say the right hospital. Because in my dream we stop at three distinct hospitals, but he objects to each one in a picky fashion as he sits bleeding in my passenger seat. Nor do the doctors seem particularly concerned with his arm so much as they are with directing us to the correct hospital.
We never make it, as the dream ends with us lost somewhere on I-12.