Before the internet had all the answers,
before Siri, before Alexa,
before TikTok teens with ring lights
explained the universe in under thirty seconds—
I had my dad.

Dad was my Wikipedia.
Dad was fact. Full stop.

I asked him once why I only dreamed in red.
Why I’d jolt awake like a Narcan gasp,
drenched in my own feverish
sheen of morbid curiosity.

He told me wolves dream in red.
Said it probably meant
something evil was coming for me.
Or in my way.
Or already inside me.

He said it like it was fact.
So I believed it.

I started preparing for sleep in grayscale.
Watched only black and white reruns.
Banned Red Dye #7 from my diet.
Avoided Crayola like it was radioactive.
The coveted 64-count box with the sharpener on the back?
I pulled out all eleven reds:
Maroon, Scarlet, Vermilion—
even Red Orange (traitor).

Didn’t help.
The dreams still bled through.

I expected something demonic
to spew from the closet
or from me.
I waited. Braced for it.

Years later, Dad’s voice
got replaced by apps and algorithms.
The Crayola box, flapless and half-chewed,
still sits on my shelf near my laptop,
its sharpener crusted with rust and regret.

At 2 a.m., I ask ChatGPT
why I still dream in red, like a wolf.

It tells me wolves see in blue and yellow.

My dreams say otherwise.
They haven’t updated.
Maybe some things don’t need correcting.