A doughy officer lumbered toward her, his blue uniform purple in the taillights’ glow. She knew the guy—not well, but she recognized him as a wrestler in high school. She rolled down her window.

He tipped back his hat. “License and registration please?”

Without warning, Jonas threw open the door and leapt out.

“Jonas, no.” She scrambled for his arm, but she wasn’t quick enough.

The policeman stumbled backward and twitched a hand toward his belt. But when Jonas, fully garbed in the clothes of his sect, stepped in front of the headlights, the officer froze.

Jonas towered over the man by at least six inches. He put on his hat and extended a hand. “Happy to meet you, sir—I’m Jonas Rishel.”

Leaning back, the officer tucked his thumbs into his waistband. “Kindly return to the vehicle.”

Jonas lowered his hand. “And your name, sir?”

The man puffed his chest, displaying his badge. “Officer Kunkle. Now, I need you to return to—”

“Officer Kunkle, yes. I believe I’ve seen you and your wife at market on Wednesdays. My sister, Nora, sells pies and cakes. Your wife is especially fond of strawberry rhubarb, as I recall.”

Officer Kunkle floundered for his pad and pen. “Strawberry what?”

Moths spiraled and dove in the headlights.

Jonas swatted them with one hand. “Sir, I’m afraid this incident is my fault. Miss Tessa Meadows—surely you know her father, Professor Meadows, up at the college? Miss Meadows was kind enough to indulge me in an adventure. As you can imagine, I’m not too familiar with motorized vehicles in general, and I asked Miss Meadows to drive a bit faster than she ordinarily would.”

Officer Kunkle leaned around Jonas and eyeballed her through the windshield. “I clocked you at sixty-two, Miss Meadows.”

“I can assure you she would never have driven so quickly if I hadn’t urged her. She is completely without blame and never broke a traffic law in her life.” He glanced over his shoulder for confirmation.

She nodded emphatically.

“Now, sir, I take full responsibility for any violation of your laws.” He wagged a finger at Officer Kunkle’s pad. “Please write whatever you need on that paper for me.”

The brazenness. The sheer audacity. She never witnessed anything like it. Officer Kunkle pulled at his collar and shuffled like he was dancing a two-step with an invisible partner.

A pickup truck flew past at what looked like much faster than sixty-two miles per hour, kicking up dust.

“It’s Jonas Rishel,” he went on, “R-I-S—”

“You don’t need to spell out your name.” The policeman cleared his throat with a long harrumph. He glared through the windshield and closed his ticket book. “I’ll let you off with a warning, Ms. Meadows, but don’t let it happen again.”