The flying car landed. It didn’t need much space – just the hundred feet or so of the curiously low-speed intersection in the middle of the highway. It rolled to a stop right at the shoulder.
The driver and I consulted our phones, working out where I had to go next. We were a little southwest of the sixth point in my journey; we couldn’t agree on whether I had to go up the road or down it for a little while. I knew I didn’t want to overshoot, as my map showed a strongly directional plume of radiation going to the southeast from around my next waypoint.
(it’s worth noting that for once my smartphone was fully functional in my dream. I don’t think it was quite the one I have in waking life, but it actually functioned like I expect one to instead of being a crude 1970s-era approximation like I used to get.)
We put the car in reverse and rolled back to the other side of the intersection. A tow truck pulled up but we didn’t need it.
Then there was an edit and I was meeting my contact for the sixth point. A big, bald dude. I could tell it was him because there was a tribal-stylized 6 on the right half of his face. He was just coming back from the grocery store.
Then I woke up.