My 2001Toyota Corolla is chronically flawed. Small parts of the engine break off and get caught in various filters. That build up causes the car to stall when it goes under 10 miles per hour—unless you can drive with one foot on the brake and the other foot on the pedal, a feat that eludes me. When the car starts to choke, sputter, wheeze, and violently gasp for breath, I can’t focus on the road—I become traumatized, fearing to maneuver either into or out of traffic. I am so afraid of having an accident in heavily congested Honolulu that I no longer drive my car. My wife, who has had lots of experience taming recalcitrant farm vehicles, masterfully coaxes the Toyota back into life when it begins its death rattle. So she exclusively drives the car, and I have gotten used to being in the passenger seat. Except for one thing: her antics on the road terrify me. Whenever my wife senses that I am getting too comfortable, she rapidly accelerates, whether we are confronting menacing potholes on a side street or dodging cars on the free-for-all interstate. But her most unnerving exploit is to speed up when we are approaching a red light. So far, we haven’t had an accident—although at times, I felt like I was going to have an accident in my pants. I wish the Toyota would self-destruct so I could get a different car—any other car would do, as long as it was drivable. But my wife has a perverse fondness for our old geezer, so there is no adjudicating the matter: I simply need to trust my wife’s instincts. And there is a silver lining. When we get back to North Carolina, I do most of the driving while my wife rests and even sleeps—what trust that is! I have little sense of direction, and I have poor depth perception at night. If my wife can have so much faith in me at the wheel—clueless that I am—I need to have faith in her ability to steer clear of calamity on the road.