Here’s my short family story:
One summer when I was about ten years old, my family took a road trip to the mountains. My parents had planned the whole trip carefully, but one thing they didn't account for was my younger brother’s love of pressing buttons.
As we drove up a winding road, admiring the view, my brother sat in the back seat, fidgeting with everything he could reach. Suddenly, the car started making a loud beeping noise. My dad pulled over, looking worried. "What did you touch?" he asked my brother.
"I don't know," my brother said, eyes wide with fake innocence.
My mom checked the dashboard and gasped. "The trunk is open!" she exclaimed.
Sure enough, when we got out, we saw that the trunk had popped open, and half our luggage was missing. We had to turn around and retrace our route, looking for our missing bags on the side of the road. After about twenty minutes, we spotted my dad’s bright red suitcase sitting in the middle of a curve. We pulled over and picked it up, and one by one, we found almost all of our things scattered along the roadside.
From that day on, my brother was banned from touching any buttons in the car, and we double-checked the trunk before
every trip.