CARS START TO ROLL, AND I ROLL ALONG WITH THEM. A MINUTE later, there’s real movement, so I jam on the gas. Cutting across open lanes, I weave in and out, gaining momentum. Exhilarated, I blow past eighty, eighty-five. The car’s vibrations surge through my veins. Bodies in motion stay in motion. Amped up this high, my urges override my good sense. Slow down, I warn myself. Instead, I hit ninety, ninety-two, ninety-five.

My Porsche is a hand-me-down from Nate, who rode it hard and with no respect. The left side is dented, a taillight is busted, and the shocks are a disaster. Still, it’s a top-of-the-line speedster worth two hundred grand. It’s also an asshole’s car and a police magnet, so I get stopped constantly. Plus, I drive recklessly and over the speed limit. “It’s like you want to get caught,” Billy says.

I hear the cop before I see him. His siren blares, then his megaphone. “Pull over at the next shoulder.”

Offering him a good-natured wave in my rearview mirror, I slow down. But my heart is thumping. Despite my bravado, police terrify me. It may seem paradoxical to fear the very men our lives depend on, but terror is the point. Like soldiers, most cops are young, male, and bred for violence. When it comes to power dynamics, they can be as lethal as the most hardened criminals. Look how they’re treating Billy.

For me, a girl alone on a long stretch of highway, the best defense is a good offense. So, by the time I reach a full stop, I’ve slipped off my jacket to reveal a barely there camisole. It’s a vintage cast-off that I found combing through thrift store racks in New Haven. In my rearview mirror, I tousle my hair while watching the cop step out of his sedan and approach me. It’s late March and raw—chilly, rainy, and starting to sleet. So, I straighten my back, sit high in my seat, and pretend I’m not rattled.

Using his thick ring, the cop raps on my window. “You mind?” He’s young, about my age. Stocky and cocky with a bleached flattop; military all the way, or at least aspirational. It’s dark out, and in the white glare of passing headlights, his spiky hair glows like a crown of thorns.

I widen my eyes and ask, “Something wrong, Officer?” Even I’m embarrassed by my breathy voice, as if we’re filming a porn video. It’s my weak attempt at humor, but this guy barely glances my way. Instead, he shines a flashlight into the backseat and then up front, across the dash and over to me. “License, registration, and proof of insurance, ma’am.”

I gather all three and hand them over. “I was driving too fast.” I say this contritely, in my own voice. “I apologize.”