On July 16, in the aching torpid heat of the South Florida summer, Terry Whelper stood at the Avis counter at Miami International Airport and rented a bright red Chrysler LeBaron convertible. He had originally signed up for a Dodge Colt, a sensible low-mileage compact, but his wife had told him go on, be sporty for once in your life. So Terry Whelper got the red LeBaron plus the extra collision coverage, in anticipation of Miami drivers. Into the convertible he inserted the family – his wife Gerri, his son Jason, his daughter Jennifer – and bravely set out for the turnpike.

The children, who liked to play car games, began counting all the other LeBarons on the highway. By the time the Whelpers got to Snapper Creek, the total was up to seventeen. "And they're all rentals," Terry muttered. He felt like a fool; every tourist in Miami was driving a red LeBaron convertible.

"But look at all this legroom," said his wife.

From the back seat came Jennifer's voice: "Like, what if it rains?"

"Like, we put up the top," Terry said.

His wife scolded him for being sarcastic with their daughter. "She's only eleven, for heaven's sake."

"Sorry," said Terry Whelper. Then louder, over his shoulder: "Jenny, I'm sorry."

"For what?"

Terry shook his head. "Nothing, hon."

It started raining near Florida City, and of course the convertible top wouldn't go up; something was stuck, or maybe Terry wasn't pushing the right button on the dash. The Whelpers sought shelter at an Amoco station, parked near the full-service pumps and waited for the cloudburst to stop. Terry was dying to tell his wife I-told-you-so, sporty my ass, but she wouldn't look up from the paperback that she was pretending to read.

Jennifer asked, "Like, what if it rains all day and all night?"

"It won't," said Terry, trying hard to be civil.