The Exam Paper I Sat in My Sleep

I was a mediocre chemistry student carried by a good memory and bad nerves, and in the week before finals I was revising in a panic, everything and therefore nothing. Then I dreamed the exam.

Not vaguely. I dreamed sitting in the sports hall at my numbered desk, opening the paper, and reading six questions, in order, with the specific dry phrasing exam boards use. I read them, in the dream, with the flat clarity of actually reading — a titration calculation with a particular awkward concentration, an organic mechanism I hated, a question on reaction feasibility that used the word 'spontaneous' in a way that annoyed me, three more. I woke up with them still legible in my mind, which never happens, and I did something that felt insane even as I did it: I wrote them down.

I took the list to my study group, sheepish, framing it as 'topics I've got a feeling about' rather than 'the actual exam I dreamed,' because I didn't want to be laughed out of the library. But my feeling was oddly specific, and the group, drowning like me, was glad of any structure, so we revised to my dream's syllabus: that titration type, that mechanism, feasibility with its spontaneous phrasing, the other three.

The exam had six questions. Five of them were mine. The titration, near-identical concentration. The hated mechanism. The feasibility question, 'spontaneous' and all. Two of the other three, close enough that our targeted revision carried us. Only one question came from nowhere, and by then we had enough marks banked to survive it.