Wheels Keep Turning

Nothing like a ragtop Beetle, with four on the floor and wind blowing through your hair as you head out on the backroads from Mora, Minnesota.

Who cares if this tin can of a car doesn't have a heater; it's our endless summer. With my girl waiting at our cabin hideaway, what is there to go wrong?

What was it she was talking about earlier, something about a clinic?

What?