Bernie Kosar begins growling. I tell him to chill out and he stops, but he keeps vigil out the window. Gravel pings against the truck as we slow along the shoulder. Cars speed past in the left lanes. The cop car pulls to within ten feet of our rear bumper, and its headlights fill the truck’s interior. The cop flips them off, then aims a spotlight straight through the rear window. The siren stops wailing but the lights still flash.

“What do you think?” I ask, watching from the side mirror. The spotlight is blinding; but when a car passes, I can see that the officer is holding the radio up in his right hand, probably running our license plate, or calling for backup.

“Our best bet is to flee on foot,” Six says. “If that’s what it comes to.”

“Turn off your vehicle and remove the key from the ignition,” the cop barks through a speaker.

Six turns off the truck. She looks at me and removes the key.

“If he radios us in, you have to assume that they’ll hear it,” I say.

She nods, says nothing. From behind us the officer’s car door creaks. His approaching boots click bleakly on the asphalt.

“Do you think he’ll recognize us?” Sam asks.

“Shhh,” Six says.

When I look in the side mirror again, I realize the officer isn’t walking towards the driver’s side, and has instead veered right and is coming towards me. He taps my window with his chrome flashlight. I hesitate for a moment, then roll it down. He shines the light in my face, causing me to squint. Then he moves the beam to Sam, then Six. He forces his brows together, studying each of us closely while he tries to determine why we look so familiar.

“Is there a problem, officer?” I ask.

“You kids from around here?”

“No, sir.”

“Ya care tellin’ me why y’alls drivin’ through Tennessee in a Chevy S-10 with North Carolina plates belonging to a Ford Ranger?”

He glares at me, waiting for an answer. My face feels warm as I struggle to find one. I have nothing. The officer bends down and again flashes the light on Six. Then at Sam.

“Anyone wanna try me?” he asks.

He’s met with silence, which causes him to chuckle.

“Of course not,” he says. “Three kids from North Carolina driving through Tennessee in a stolen truck on a Saturday night. Ya kids are on a dope run, aren’t ya?”

I turn and stare into his face, which is ruddy and clean shaven.

“What do you want to do?” I ask.

“What do I wanna do? Ha! Ya kids are going to jail!”

I shake my head at him. “I wasn’t talking to you.”

He leans forward with his elbows on the door.