He wanted to take a road trip by himself in the Minnesota winter. For two days before he left, I begged him not to go. I sensed disaster. He was a devout materialist who didn’t believe in anything.
I listed off all the happenings I’d predicted in the past. He dismissed them all as coincidences and left for his trip. He came back twenty minutes later. He’d hit an icy patch on an on-ramp and had slid into the guardrail.
The car was wrecked. He was physically fine, but shaken, more so, because I’d been right.
After that, in unsure situations, he’d ask me what I thought was going to happen next. He still claimed to not believe in anything, but when I questioned him about it, he said, only stupid people don’t acknowledge when something is going on.