Charlotte and the deputy both notice me approach. The deputy, a white man in his forties, flicks his notebook closed and puts a hand on his hip, as if to remind me there’s no use in running away. The holstered gun on his other hip doesn’t go unnoticed.

Alice is tucked behind them, a quiet shadow with her head bowed. Her hair falls forward in a thick black curtain, hiding her face. The sight makes my heart ache.

When I reach the car, the deputy glances at Charlotte. “This your friend?” Charlotte nods, then continues rapidly explaining and apologizing.

I go to Alice and look her over. “You okay?” She doesn’t respond or look me in the eye. I reach for her shoulder, but she twists back, away from my fingers. “Alice—”

“Now that we’re all here…,” the deputy drawls. Aided by a long-suffering sigh, he strides around the driver’s side of his squad car—taking his sweet time on purpose, I’m positive—and leans on the hood. “Ms. Simpson, you’re free to go with a warning. The next time it’ll be a ticket. Ms. Chen and Ms.…?” He tips his head my way expectantly and raises a brow.

I swallow, my heart still racing. “Matthews.”

“Uh-huh.” He nods at the back seat of the squad car. “You’re both with me.”

Beside me, Alice’s hands shake in her lap. I glance at the squad car’s glowing blue digital clock. 10:32. We’ve been on the dark, empty back road to campus for eleven silent minutes. Neither of us has ever ridden in a police car. It smells like leather and gun oil and something sharp and minty. My eyes land on a round green-and-black tin of Classic Wintergreen–flavored Skoal in the cup holder between the front seats. Ugh. Beyond the metal mesh divider, a dusty laptop sits attached to the center console. Below it, there’s a pile of electrical equipment sprouting coiled wires and covered with dials and switches. The deputy, whose name tag says “Norris,” fiddles with the radio station until it hits the chorus of “Sweet Home Alabama” over the crackling speaker.

I’m sixteen. I pay attention. I listen to the stories from uncles, cousins—hell, my own father—about police run-ins and stops. I see the videos online. Sitting in this car and thinking about those images makes my heart pound. I don’t know if there’s a single Black person in this country who can say with 100 percent confidence that they feel safe with the police. Not after the past few years. Probably not ever. Maybe there are some, somewhere, but I sure as hell don’t know ’em.

Alice sits stiff as a board, gaze locked outside the window onto the endless wall of passing shadowed woods. In the front seat, Norris taps his thumbs on the wheel and mouths, “Lord, I’m coming home to you.”