The roads turn icy again, closer to home. When I stop at red lights, I slide a little. When I go forward on the green, the tires spin and make a sound like a dog yelping. I’m doing this, liking it, slowing way down before a yellow light so I can do it again, when a town cruiser pulls up behind me and gets on the God horn. “Take it to the curb,” the voice says, so loud that even through the closed windows it sounds like the speaker’s right against my ear.

I pull over. I have not, I should say, been pulled over by the police in I don’t remember how long. This cop is tall. He’s all legs in the side mirror, walking toward me. I roll down my window and he leans over, his head closed up in a dark blue hat with earflaps. He asks for my license and registration and I hand them over.

“Looked like you were having a little trouble controlling your vehicle,” he says. He’s peering into the backseat.

“No, sir,” I say, trying to sound nothing but pleasant. “I was just—enjoying the slide, so to speak. I thought it was okay, since no one else was around.”

“Sir, that is exactly how accidents happen,” he says. “Which is why it’s never ‘okay’ to disregard traffic laws.”

“I guess you’re right about that.”

“It’s not a matter of opinion,” he says.

He straightens up and studies my license, and I’m trying to think of what to say next. I’m wondering exactly how much reckless driving costs, and what it does to your record.

“Matthew Ragazzino,” the cop reads off my license. And then he doesn’t move or say anything for a few seconds. He’s standing there looking at my license, then looking at my Celica, as if he’s confused about something. “Mr. Ragazzino,” he says, “I’m sorry to bother you. I was just concerned about your safety.”

“Oh,” I say. His gloved hand is holding the license and the registration card near the open window. I take them. “Well, thanks.”

“You have a good day, Mr. Ragazzino.”

“You too,” I say.

And that’s it. He walks back to his cruiser, and seconds later he pulls around me, gives a little wave, and heads off down the street.

There’s no other car in front of our house to indicate someone else is there. My father’s appointment should be over with by now anyway. I carry the shopping bag up the driveway, but when I round the front of the Seville I see a bicycle lying on its side in the snow next to the steps. I walk quietly through the front door and hear my father’s voice say, “This is a little light.”