All good. The more hectic it was the better for us. I had figured out how to drive, or more accurately not drive, the pickup. The driver could assume control of the system at any time simply by turning the steering wheel or pressing on the accelerator or brake, just as cruise control could be overridden in traditional vehicles. As long as we were mired in the traffic jam, we were okay. The truck stayed a safe distance behind the vehicle in front of us, moving whenever it moved. The only problem I could foresee was what to do if that car in front of us moved out of range while we were being interviewed. Without being able to put my foot on the brake there was no way I could prevent the truck from moving forward. That would be awkward. But we had no choice; I had to be behind the wheel, maybe the last place law enforcement would expect me to be.

They were doing a pretty thorough search. Officers were leaning into every vehicle. Each of them had a photograph and were trying to match it to anyone in the vehicle.

I turned on the radio, just two normal folks out for a midnight drive. “You think there’s a station playing soothing cop music?”

“Just remember who we are,” Laura reminded me. She held her hands locked together in her lap, although several of her fingers appeared to be struggling to get free.

The truck was moving perfectly, maintaining the gap between us and the sports car in front of us. Thoughts were running through my mind like those endless banners at the bottom of a news report. What did I miss? What if the cops ask us to get out of the car? Should we have taken a different bridge? Maybe I should have gone west and crossed in a different state? I was responsible for Laura, so when should I surrender to save her? My paranoia shifted in high gear: What if Cher thought it was funny to yell out she was being kidnapped? None of it was productive, but every effort I made to lock them away failed.

We eased into the traffic. As we slowly moved forward in the long line leading to the first checkpoint, I noticed a blue van to our right had a handicapped sticker affixed to its rear bumper. “That poor guy,” I said, pointing it out to Laura, “he has no idea what he’s gotten into.”

The red car moved forward, and we closed the gap. I had gone for country on the radio and was trying to whistle along with Brad, but my throat was too dry and I kept blowing air. We stopped next to a new Kia Sorento; it was a hatchback, and I noticed a wheelchair sitting in the cargo space. That’s a coincidence, I thought. Two in a row.

About five minutes later we reached the first checkpoint. I kept both hands on the wheel. As I turned down the radio, a New York State trooper leaned into the cab. He was an older, pleasantly round-faced man. He was holding a clipboard; the photograph on top showed me sitting in Mighty Chair at my desk at the Pro. I was smiling whimsically. A tower of Dunkin’ cups rose from one edge. It actually was kind of flattering. “Evening, folks,” the trooper said politely. “Sir, may I see your identification, please.”