The thought of home—of warmth, of dinner, of him—makes your foot press a little harder on the accelerator. The engine responds with a low purr. The speedometer needle climbs, creeping past the limit you know is posted on the rusted sign now blurring past your window. You just want to be there.

In your rearview mirror, a flash of red and blue erupts, stark and violent against the twilight. A siren whoops once, a short, sharp sound that cuts through the radio’s murmur. Your stomach drops. You signal, guide the car onto the gravel shoulder, and come to a stop. The police cruiser glides to a halt behind you, its headlights painting the interior of your car in a harsh, white glare.

You kill the engine. The silence is sudden, heavy. You can hear the tick of the cooling metal, the distant cry of a crow. You take a steadying breath, already rehearsing the apology in your head, preparing for the stern face of a stranger about to ruin your evening. You roll down the driver’s side window. The cold evening air rushes in, carrying the scent of damp earth and exhaust.

A figure approaches, silhouetted against the cruiser’s brights. The familiar cadence of boots on gravel. Then he steps into the light cast by your open window, and the prepared words die in your throat.