“What are the chances of getting hit by a meteorite?” We were at Point Reyes seashore, had driven hours north of the city to watch the sunset. We drove to beautiful places in our untrustworthy car, wondering where and when it would die. “We live in the world’s most perfect place,” he’d remind me. “Except for earthquakes.”

I wanted him to have a theory. To explain things to me. To me, our lives were worrisome, driving away from an apartment filled with unpaid bills to see another perfect sunset.

“I don’t know anything about the statistical risk of death by meteorite,” my husband said.

The Saab sounded asthmatic—creaky, loud. I thought about the man who sold it to us. Bruce. He told us that he used to sell time shares before he sold cars.

‘This car suits the two of you,” he said.

His lips seemed to collapse on each other as he moved his mouth around. He was out of breath, fanning his face with a marketing flier. There was pressure on him to sell us a car, pressure on us to buy the cheapest car we could still feel safe in.

We parked by the sea. The sunset was so orange and exotic, a blanket of fluffy sky. We perched in our heated lemon, staring at the glow.