The door opens with a loud squeak, threatening to fall off the 30 year old hinges. The MGB is painted burnt orange red. The smell inside is of gasoline, exhaust, and dilapidated leather. As her brother turns the key, both say a prayer the engine and coordinating parts will cooperate today. It roars to life with a sputter. She’s the co-pilot and knows her place. They pull out of the driveway and she turns the wobbly radio knob to full blast. The Beatles blare out of the strained speakers “...it’s gonna be alright, alright!”...and truer words were never spoken.