Kneeling on the pavement in the San Francisco hotel’s parking lot, I peered under my car and was flooded with relief.

Two weeks prior, while driving to the hotel the night before of our early-morning flight, I had run over a large piece of hard plastic. It had magically materialized in my lane, and banged and clattered against the undercarriage as we passed over it. For the rest of the drive, I was on high-alert for disaster: the check engine light coming on, smoking billowing from behind, car parts flinging off.

Everything seemed to remain intact.

Arriving at the hotel, I had looked underneath and saw no leaks or drips, no mangled pieces of car dangling down. But two weeks is plenty of time for something that is holding on by only a thread to succumb to gravity and let go. Throughout our vacation in Alaska, my thoughts drifted to the car. Upon our return, would we find a mortally wounded vehicle, a dark pool of motor oil, transmission fluid, or some other vital liquid spreading out from beneath the car, like blood at a crime scene?

But no. The pavement underneath was clean and dry.

Whew! Dodged that bullet! Time to go home to our beloved dog Jasper.

We threw luggage in the trunk and grabbed water bottles for the front. I waited for Martin to unlock the car. He seemed to be having trouble with the key fob, and eventually just unlocked the door manually. “The key fob battery is dead,” he said.