At ten five, we carried our bags to the driveway beside the old Buick.

The car had 190,000 miles on it, and the heater rattled whenever we stopped at a light.

Michael had promised to replace it before the baby came, though lately every purchase seemed to have acquired a reason to wait.

He put the thermos on the back seat and lifted our bags into the trunk.

“Are we going far?” I asked.

“Not far.