I couldn’t be speeding. I was in the right-hand lane, and there was too much traffic. The cop had to be rushing to an accident.

Please let it be someone else. I counted to twenty slowly, but the cop stayed on my ass, sirens loud, cool blue light flashing.

Next exit was two miles away, so I signaled and pulled onto the shoulder, which was always a bad feeling on the highway—a trapped, how the hell am I going to get back on—feeling. The cop would pass, I knew it.

No such luck.

The siren died, but the strobing lights stayed. The cop parked behind me.

I sat stiffly, my thoughts scrambling, sweat dripping down my sides under my stiff shirt. My mind straddled between it’s going to be A-OK, cowboy, he won’t look in your trunk, and that cop’s going to read panic in your eyes and search your trunk for sure.

Poor Sawyer. What a crummy deal it would be to have two parents in prison. As if one wasn’t bad enough.

Why was the cop staying in his car?

He’s calling in your plate number. Next, he’ll check your license.

Oh, right. License and registration. I opened my wallet.

Cops hated me. A cop would describe me as a hipster, a wuss. My hair fell in waves past my ears. I was a little pretty.

I should cut my hair. But Heather loved it, loved playing with it. So did Emily. So had Sawyer when he was young and cuddly.

I rolled down the window and peered at the slow-moving traffic. From the passing car, a middle-aged guy made a fish mouth at me. The next car passed, and a blank-faced teenage girl stared at me. From the next passing car, an old lady gave me the finger.

What did I do to deserve that?

Tan pants. A button-down tan shirt bearing insignia. The woman was petite, white, and young with shoulder-length hair. I felt worried for her. Oh, honey, this is the Dan Ryan, the most violent highway in the city with the most shootings. You don’t have to do this.

I felt bad for stereotyping. She could be a decorated war veteran or an expert in knife combat. Or maybe she was a dick, a stickler who got off on giving tickets for minor infractions.

“I’m sorry,” I said, “I’m not sure what I did.” A drop of sweat slid down the side of my forehead.

“License and registration, please,” she said plainly. There was none of that subservient lilt to her voice, the tone characteristic of many young women. Which did women have to practice: the appeasing voice that ended in a question mark, or the low-toned unapologetic voice?

I handed both over, and she walked back to her car.