We paid more for the old truck than we should have. It died the first time out of the yard. We should have returned it; but then we would have set ourselves at odds with the old man who sold it, and we were too vulnerable to chance that. The old yellow pickup reminds me of our youth, poverty, three and a half years spent in the Nevada desert with a controlling, spiritually abusive leader, and a precious miracle.

After weeks of repairs and many more dollars, we finally felt like it was safe to drive out of town. We got about 70 miles from home and it died. We had two toddlers and another baby o...