Even at twilight, the rolling hills are deep green against the backdrop of the lights marking a few distant farms. I remember the first time I came up here from New York City on the Dartmouth Coach. I was terrified of all the open space. So easy to lose your way.

Up ahead is exit 18, which leads to the state road to Hanover and Dartmouth. I take the exit, tap the brakes at the end of the ramp, and make a right turn.

I see a flicker in my rearview mirror.

Shit.

Flashing blue lights come up behind me. I can make out the shape of a dark blue police cruiser. A Ford Interceptor.

I pull over, praying he’ll blow past me on the way to a call.

But he stops.

“Garrett, wake up!” I say, slapping his arm. “We’ve got a problem.”

I flash back to a night when Garrett and I first started dating.

We’d been heading south on the Taconic State Parkway after a day of leaf-peeping. I’d driven the whole way so Garrett could snap pictures. I have no idea how fast I was going, but all of a sudden, I saw police lights pop on behind me. The parkway had a narrow shoulder, so I started looking for a safe place to stop.

It scared the crap out of me when the cop hit the siren. I almost went into a ditch when I finally pulled over, the New York state trooper following close behind.

The trooper came to my window with an attitude, and I gave it right back to him. A few seconds later, I was sprawled on the hood of the car, and the cop was about to cuff me.

I reminded myself of the statistics: About a thousand civilians were killed by cops every year in this country, a lot of them after traffic stops. And many of them had my skin tone. I didn’t want to become one of those statistics.

I silently counted to ten, then swallowed my pride and reasoned, pleaded, and apologized. It worked. I got off with a warning.

And a fear of it happening again.

Tonight’s cop is a stocky guy, probably mid-twenties. He’s a local, not a statie. He hitches up his utility belt as he walks toward my window.

Garrett swivels in his seat and looks. “Don’t worry,” he says. “Where’s your bag? I’ll get your ID.”

“Back seat.” I’m frozen in place, hands at the nine and three positions on the steering wheel.

“On it,” says Garrett. He reaches for my bag. I check my mirror. The cop is getting closer. Garrett turns around with my wallet, pulls out my Connecticut driver’s license, and hands it to me.

“Garrett,” I mutter. “Get your registration!”

“Looking!” he says. He pops the glove compartment and bends his head down to look inside.