As we’re heading toward the lot, I say, “I don’t feel so well.”

“I can drive.”

“You sure?”

“It’s just a straight shot.”

In the car, I close my eyes. My lids are burning. And I don’t know why, but all the frustrations of the past few days boil up. Carlos is being nice, but why does he have to be so stubborn? “I don’t get it,” I say. “Everyone thinks you’re so great. They’ll help you.”

“I told you already. I don’t need help.”

“Don’t need or don’t want?”

He doesn’t answer.

“What are you going to do? You’ve got to get a lawyer. Lidia says—”

“Lidia this, Lidia that,” he says in a singsong voice.

“You are such a jerk.”

Carlos is gripping the wheel, and we go faster. Kamal starts to whimper. Next there’s a blinding white light flaring into the rear window. A siren shrieks.

“Shit,” Carlos says under his breath.

The siren wails again.

“What should I do?” His hands are trembling.

“Pull over,” I whisper.

There’s a crackling sound under the tires as we come to the shoulder. Carlos looks terrified, the color drained from his face.

A cop is leaning over, tapping the window with his knuckles. Carlos is frozen. The cop taps harder, angrier.

“Carlos,” I whisper.

He can’t move.

“Carlos,” I beg. Kamal starts to cry.

Seeing Carlos unable to press the window switch, I make a flapping motion with my hands, to indicate Yes, sir, we’re on it, and then I stretch across Carlos and press the window open.

But the cop is furious and snarls, “License! Registration!” His flashlight scans across the car interior. His mouth twitches when the beam sets on a frightened Kamal curled in the back.

I fumble in the glove compartment and find the little vinyl flap where Ammi keeps the registration and insurance card, and then I’m nudging Carlos in the arm, begging him to give his license.

“What’s wrong with him?” the cop asks.

“He’s scared,” I say. “That’s all.”

“He was going seventy-five miles an hour.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Why are you sorry? He’s the one that was driving.”

At this, Carlos seems to stir. “Excuse me, officer.” With a shaking hand he pulls out his wallet and hands it to him. Then he squeezes his eyes shut, his face pinched, as if he were bracing for someone to hit him. His right leg is bouncing, up, down, up down.

“You better step out.”

“Sir?”

“Out.”

Carlos unwinds himself from the seat belt and steps outside. My heart is thundering in my chest. Carlos: head bowed, shoulders hunched, hands at his sides. He looks like the men I watched being taken in ICE vans—their bodies surrendered. He looks nothing like the Carlos drawing tourists, teasing Kamal.