“Get in,” he said.

CHAPTER FIVE

In the car Peter told a story about how one of his friends set a fire in a park. He meant it to be a funny story, but I had trouble following it because the lights on the road kept getting in my eyes. Red lights and white lights, and the yellow ones that hung above the streets. I tried to concentrate on a faraway landmark, an old technique I’d learned to avoid getting carsick, but I kept misjudging distances and my landmarks slipped past the sides of the car. He got on 59 headed south. I studied his profile, watched his mouth moving.

“Where are we going?” I said.

“My place.”

That sounded good, to be at a place. If I could lie down on a cold floor and stop moving I’d be all right.

“Is there a floor?” I said.

“A floor in my apartment? Of course there’s a floor.”

“What’s it like?”

“It has carpet. And there’s tile in the kitchen and the bathroom.”

“Okay,” I said.

We passed the Denny’s sign and the Hooters sign. A car to the right of us honked its horn and Peter swerved left. He must be fucked up, too. We passed under the Loop, and gloom closed around me. We were practically halfway to Sugar Land. Far from home. I rolled my window down for air, to help me think more clearly. I stretched my arm out the window, let my hand ride the current of wind. It didn’t look like a hand, it looked like an animal. It wasn’t until they were right behind us that I saw the red and blue lights flash in the mirror.

“Peter, pull over,” I said.

“I am! What the fuck. Fuck,” he said. “This is your fucking fault.”

This sounded unlikely to me, so I ignored it. He parked on the shoulder.

“You’re the one distracting me,” he said. “Talking about my fucking carpet while I’m trying to fucking drive. Get me the insurance card. In the glove compartment.”

I reached for it, and the cop on his loudspeaker yelled, “Hands on the dash.”

We waited in the car. Peter was freaking out in the seat beside me.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he kept saying.

I examined my hands. Bits of chipped polish remained in the center of each nail. Maybe tomorrow I could get a manicure. Fake nails like Danielle’s.

“This is exactly what I don’t need,” Peter said. Like a grouchy kid.

“He’s coming,” I said.

“Eliza—” he said.

“My name’s not Eliza,” I said.

“License and proof of insurance,” the cop said.

The cop, a Latino guy with a big belly, examined Peter’s documents and shined his light in Peter’s face, then mine.

“Do you know why I stopped you, sir?” he said.

“Uh. Speeding?” Peter said.

“Step out of the car, sir.”

Peter had some trouble with his seat belt. The cop made him kneel behind the car with his hands on his head. I hadn’t been stopped by the police since I was about seventeen, ran a red light, I think, and the guy let me off without a ticket. Unlike Peter, I was an excellent drunk driver, having had a lot of practice. I strained to listen through the waves of traffic. Peter argued. He stood up and the cop watched him try to touch his nose with his finger. I sat there and sat there. Another squad car stopped behind the first one. Peter yelled, the cop yelled, and the cop cuffed him and shoved him in the backseat of the cruiser. The two cops stood around talking to each other.