There’s this pit of the stomach feeling, I know you know it, when you blaze over the crest of a slope on the highway with the Pogues blaring Streams of Whiskey from a dozen speakers and that big block Chevy 454 thundering backup, and the unmistakable profile of a Ford Police Interceptor crouches on the median like a sullen lion. There’s no time to brake, no place to go, the speedo jiggling somewhere north of ninety. You reel it in causally, will he buy it that the beast got away from you—and your normally grandmother-like driving—and what about those hippie-dippy girls in the backseat, stinking of patchouli and peanut butter. The pretty one, the one with the freckles in her cleavage and the ice blue eyes, is snoring like a drunk. It’s likely she is, in fact, still drunk—and god knows what else. You don’t even want to know what she’s got in her purse, or if she’s got a prescription for that, and if so, what for? Maybe it won’t even matter.