Instinctively I reach for the center of my dashboard to flip on my lights and sirens—when I realize, shit, of course, I don’t have those anymore.

Instead, I lay on the horn. Cut the wheel sharply. And start lurching my way across all three lanes. Gas, brake, gas, brake. Other drivers honk at me. Curse. Flash every rude gesture in the book. But I ignore every one of them and stay focused.

Once I make it onto the gravel shoulder, I floor it. I can eventually see that there’s a major accident—looks like every cop in Louisiana is on the scene. I take the first exit, Howard Avenue, then pull a screeching right turn onto Jefferson Davis Parkway. It’s named after the former head of the Confederacy—a stark reminder that as progressive and free-spirited as New Orleans tries to be today, it still has a ways to go.

Traffic is okay for a few blocks, so I zoom right along. Things get hairier when I hit Washington Avenue (named after, well, you know). But I refuse to slow down. I honk and swerve, weaving in and out of cars and trucks, driving as if I were pursuing a suspect. Like they taught me in the Academy, I keep my hands gripped low on the steering wheel for better control, and my eyes straight ahead.

At the major intersection of Washington and Broad, the light turns yellow. I accelerate—but there’s no way I’m going to make it. I slam the pedal even harder. I pound my horn like a maniac and blast through the red. “Thank you,” I whisper, that I make it past without an accident—lucky for me, all the cops are otherwise occupied and I don’t have to lead them on a high-speed chase to get to Vanessa, because I’m not slowing down for anybody.

Traffic is starting to get heavy again, so I decide to turn off this main road and zip along some side streets as I near the heart of Central City. Not far from here is the Southern Food and Beverage Museum, a kitschy collection of exhibits about a topic dear to my heart. Close by, too, is the famous Leidenheimer Baking Company, makers of bread so addictive, the stuff ought to be a controlled substance.

But Central City is also a neighborhood known for homelessness, blight, and heavy drug use among its residents and transients looking to hook up for a quick score. Not to mention murders and other crimes. Forget locking herself in a gas station bathroom. What was Vanessa doing here in the first place?

I continue zooming along potholed residential roads. Past tumbledown houses and abandoned lots, a blur of poverty and neglect. Finally, I turn onto Claiborne Avenue and keep my eyes open for that rundown gas station. I’m almost there.

I see one, a Shell, but it looks pretty clean and fairly busy.