Three hours into the desert their engine choked and buckled, rolling dark smoke into the pale blue sky.
Tom, ever the male, got out his tool box – cursing as he repeatedly burned or smashed a finger. Sue thought this wasn’t the time to remind him about not asking for directions when the GPS went down.
She calmly grabbed a water from the cooler, pulled a map out of her knapsack, and set about discovering their location. Going by distance traveled, sun location, and her impeccable sense of direction, Los Vegas – via the supposed short cut – was just over the next ridge.
Figuring Tom had sweated it out enough, she called Triple A. Their maps, her membership. Good thing for Tom, what happens even near Vegas, stays in Vegas*. His buds at back at the Land Rover Dealership where Tom was a mechanic would have loved THIS honeymoon…
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