Every year around Halloween, I’m reminded of the time a dead man bequeathed his buried gold to my dad in a dream, and how he managed to lose it. Jarabacoa, Dominican Republic, 1960s. My young father went to bed with his usual contentment and dreamed of a man he knew who had recently died. In the dream, the man told him he had buried ounces of gold for safekeeping and gave the exact location. In the Dominican countryside then, banks were scarce, so people often buried their gold. If they died before revealing the spot, the only option was to reach out from beyond to whoever could hear them. The instructions were clear: go alone, at night. Only then could he dig it up. But Dad dreaded carrying out a ghost’s bidding in the dark, so he asked a friend to come along. In exchange, the friend would get half of whatever they found. That night, they waited until midnight, located the site, and started digging. Shortly after, they heard a rumbling. Dad was startled and ran home as fast as he could. He ran so fast he didn’t even think of his friend. The next day, the friend said he’d also fled like a bat out of hell. Months later, though, Dad’s formerly humble friend began showing signs of prosperity and eventually opened the town’s first pharmacy, still open today. Dad couldn’t help wondering whether his friend had really run that night, or stayed behind and dug up the gold meant for him. Nevertheless, Dad took it in jest. He used to tell the story with tears of laughter streaming down his cheeks. “I’m a lucky man,” he’d say—and in fact, he was. Not only did he routinely win the lottery with numbers from his dreams, but he had a wholesome family, friends, and all the ingredients for a happy life. A month after he died, I dreamed of Dad. In the dream, I knew he was gone and asked why he hadn’t contacted anyone sooner to tell us how he was. “Well, I was in heaven.” “OK. Care to share some wisdom from the universe?” “Whatever you do is well done. They’re not so picky up here.” “Great. Can you give me a number so I can win the lottery?” He pulled a crumpled napkin full of numbers out of his mouth and said, “Get me a pencil. I’ll write down even how much you’re going to win each time.” When he said that, I knew the numbers weren’t meant for me. I walked away and woke up. Every once in a while, I hear a voice in my dreams telling me to write down or memorize a specific number. Sometimes I buy a lottery ticket. Most times, I think of Dad and remember that I, too, am lucky… in more ways than one.