Thom Fiet

The traction control moans when I turn onto the grey lane, covered in sleet. My car, an unexpected gift from my mother-in-law, is referred to by neighbors as "the Space Shuttle." It is one of those luxury barges with crushed velveteen multi-functional power seats, authentic plastic wood grain trim, and nine settings for the wipers. It can comfortably accommodate up to seven senior citizens. Some obsessed engineer from Detroit, who knows the model name of every car ever built but…