What is the most dangerous, most harrowing incident you and your significant other ever experienced together? (Other than marriage.)

I was in the Marine Corps stationed in Hawaii, we had been married just about three years when I received orders to transfer to Camp LeJuene, North Carolina.  Our firstborn was just six months old at the time, my wife and I packed up our household and the three of us made the move.  Our car was not  expected to arrive from Hawaii for about three more weeks, but not to worry, my brother was in the Army and he offered to let me use his car in the meantime.  The glitch was that he was temporarily on overseas duty in South Korea, and his car was at his friend's place near Fort Bragg, North Carolina, so I would have to go pick it up.  The distance was about 125 miles, and since I didn't know anyone in North Carolina, my wife and I decided it would be a simple day-trip on the Greyhound bus, get the car, and be home by evening.  My brother gave me the name, address and telephone number of his friend who was holding the car, and off we went.  According to my brother, his friend was either a mechanic or a shade-tree mechanic, and had the car in tip-top condition.
  The Greyhound service was not entirely on the main highway, it was a meandering trek through about a dozen small country towns with various stopovers of ten, fifteen or thirty minutes at some of them, and we even had to change buses once.  That meant a normal 2 hour and 45 minute trip took about four or five hours.  Our destination wasn't Fort Bragg itself, but a tiny community a few miles away from it.  There was no public transportation, and being a small backwoods place, their "taxi service" consisted of a few local good ol' boys who wanted to make a buck by ferrying people around for a fee. Red flag number one.  My brother's buddy was working and could not come pick us up, so we hired the local Bubba to "carry us out there".  Bubba happened to know my brother's friend, and said, "Oh, ya'll be wantin' ta go out yonder ta them thar junkyards, raght?"  Flag red in color.
  Sure enough, we pulled up to Mayberry's outskirts, and every imaginable version of junk automobile festooned the landscape, not a one of them appeared to been manufactured in the previous three decades.   Brightly-colored banner flapping furiously in the wind.   Still hopeful that my brother's car was a pristine specimen kept under a tarp or encased in a garage, my wife, carrying our baby, and I, picked our way through the relics to the "office", a ramshackle trailer that was just as old as its automotive wards.  My brother's friend's name and telephone number were proudly displayed on an equally run-down sign above the sagging roof, followed by the words, "Salvage Cars and Junk Auto Parts".  Red flags, red flags everywhere.  When he asked me whether I planned to tow my brother's car behind mine to take it to Camp LeJuene, or if I had brought a flatbed truck, my heart sank.  He admitted that he had told my brother the car was still running, but that since my brother would be in South Korea for six more months, little by little his friend had been cannibalizing parts from it to either fix other cars or to sell to customers.  The car was up on blocks, its engine compartment was vacant, the transmission and brakes were gone, as were one door, three of the four side windows, most of the dashboard's instrumentation and the front seats.
  Having aborted that part of the mission, I now had to find a way back to Camp LeJuane, sans trans.  The next Greyhound bus would not be until the next day, and there were no nearby hotels.  Even with a hotel, our money was short, and my one credit card was maxed out due to the transfer from Hawaii.  We had anticipated being back on our way to LeJuene by then, and the meager supplies we had in the diaper bag for our baby were quickly running out.  My brother's friend had a man take us to the other side of the small town where there was supposed to be a cheap motel.  The guy who took us was a shifty character of about forty or seventy years old whose ideal of small talk was to regale us with the reasons he had never served in the military or even held a steady job stemmed from his lifelong criminal history and numerous incarcerations in jail and prison.  Before we got to the motel, he stopped to pick up his woman, another shifty character of about sixty or thirty years old who seemed to be strung out on alcohol, drugs, or both.  Before he drove off, he went to the trunk of the car to get something, and she joined him there.  From the back seat, I watched as they both wrapped the rubber tubing around their upper arms and prepared their syringes.  I got my wife and child out of there and we began walking, looking for a pay phone (this was pre-internet and pre-cell phones).   
  We eventually found our way to the "motel", which was just two or three mobile home trailers that got rented out by the hour to whomever happened to have the ten bucks or whatever the cost was.  On top of that, it began to rain, it was getting both dark and cold, and we were dressed lightly for the day-trip that we thought we'd be taking.  We only had enough cash for the Greyhound, some food, and scant incidentals, and after having spent about twelve hours at this, we had a cranky baby to think about also.  We got a "room", spent the night listening to prostitute-john transactions, drunken street brawls, faraway gunshots, loud arguments, every combination of curse words known to English, our screaming baby, etc.  More than once, someone banged on our door, looking for "Homie", or "Lucretia", or things like "where's my fix, I know you was stayin' in this room last week".  More than once, we were sure that we'd be knifed for our kidneys, or taken down by a stray bullet.  My wife, a tiny, petite and very pretty Asian woman in the mainland US for the very first time in her life, was scared out of her wits, not only for herself, but mostly for our baby.  In such a small town where everyone knew everyone else, and everyone knew when strangers we around, we stood out like sore thumbs.  I'm black ,and so were 95% of the other people in that town, but I still stood out as an outsider.  We barely slept that night, and at dawn we made or way to the Greyhound bus stop, scrambled aboard for the winding, twisting tour of rural North Carolina.  We made it back safely, and as such, the story ended well enough.
  Sitting here now writing this decades later, it doesn't convey the same raw emotions or sensations of the moments as they took place, during which time I certainly felt backed into a corner, and having put both my wife and baby in such a desperate and challenging situation tore at me.  I regretted every moment of it from listening to/believing my brother, for whom I had some very choice words when we next spoke.
~