It was the last class of the day, and George Sinclair’s eyelids felt like bricks. He tried to pay attention to his teacher, but his chin kept dropping toward his chest. George was operating on an hour of sleep after staying up to rehearse a history presentation and study for finals, so this one last period was feeling like an eternity.
Finally, the bell rang, and George headed to his pickup truck to make the 25-minute drive to his home in El Cajon, California. He blasted music to try to stay alert, but as he turned onto his street, no sound was strong enough. George nodded off.
When he jerked awake, his truck was veering across the road. It flipped on its side and slammed into a fence; a post crashed through the windshield, missing him by inches. “The two-by-four was under my armpit,” George recalls. “The car alarm went off, and I had to step on the board to climb out. I am so lucky to be alive.”