I hoped one of these guys would give me a ride home. After a while I wondered if they’d forgotten about me, then I thought how silly, of course they hadn’t, then I wondered again. My head was filling with gravel. A big truck charged past and blew a cloud of dirt and exhaust into the car. Exhaust, my fellow inhabitant. We lived together in Peter’s car.

The rhythm of pain in my head matched itself to the beat of traffic. Normally I loved the sound of cars on the freeway; it oriented me, comforted me. I’d gone to sleep to the sound every night of my life. Now the wind rattled the gravel in my head, knocking the pieces against each other. Each stone had its own headache. I reached over to the ignition and turned the key so I could raise the windows against the noise. I was thirsty.

The speaker blasted inside my head. “Hands on the dash. Don’t move.”

I began to imagine the many possible ways I might have avoided my current situation. I could’ve told Peter I had gonorrhea, for instance. Or I could’ve called a cab. I’d be home, I could pour a glass of cold water and count out some aspirins. I could be in the bath, I could be in bed. I wondered how late it was. Shit, maybe I could even be at the bar.

The gravel inside me mutated into pulsating living animals. They were eating my internal organs and spitting them out and eating them again. I sweated and bristled where anything touched me—the seat of the car, my clothing, the air. I pushed the car door open and fell to the ground on my hands and knees, retching and gagging.

“Fucking fuck, man,” one cop said to the other.

I stood and leaned against Peter’s car, picking pieces of gravel out of my knees. My head still pounded steadily, but at least the animals in my body held still. I spat bile. I faced the cops, squinted to hear them.

“You take her, man.”

“Fuck.”

“I had mine done yesterday. Fresh pine scent.”

“Fuck.”

“’Sides, I got the dumbass already.”

“Fuck, man.”

“Plus I was here first.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” The second one glanced at me. “All right, lady.”

“Please,” I said. “Can you take me home?”

“Sure, honey, tell me where you wanna go.” He snorted and the other one shook his head, a weary acknowledgment.

“Come on, I didn’t—”

“Public intox.”

“What?”

“Soon as you got out of the car. Public.”

“Sir, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“Public intox and resisting an officer. You barf in my car, I’ll charge you with property damage, too.” He looked me over carefully. “You gonna barf again?”

“I don’t think so,” I said.

A wrecker parked in front of Peter’s car. A guy got out and came towards us. I held my phone in my hand. Who could I call? I scrolled through my contacts. Nobody. I thought of the business card, Detective Ash’s card. I dialed and left him a message.