While Mark pulls the Datsun barely to the shoulder, I try to talk Lynn into slipping the stuff into her underwear. But Lynn is obstinate and drunk and doesn't want to get a possession charge on top of the other shit she'll be staring down in court next month so when the state trooper approaches on the driver's side and has to knock on the window with a flashlight and the hatchback smells like we bought it from Snoop Dog and Mark's breath is a pousse café of Old Style, Evan Williams and Parliaments and his ID is an expired WIC card, I leap in. But I've been taking speed for two days and I'm jabbering about the color of the pavement "mitigating Mark's faculties" and my eyes are like a pinball machine on tilt and the cop unsnaps his holster and tells Lynn "Get out of goddamn car!" But Lynn's in the backseat and can't figure out the mechanism, though the cop isn't buying it and draws his service weapon which pushes Mark a bit over the edge and truth be told I'm not sure Mark realizes this is ACTUALLY HAPPENING—he took a cure-for-cancer size dose of Rick Simpson oil at the reservation diner an hour back-and he slaps the car back into drive and the cop is shouting "Shut if off! Shut it off!" and Lynn is sliding her top over her head and the cop, panicking, points his revolver at each of us in turn, but the stereo's really loud now with the car running and I'm leaning over Mark trying to figure out how to turn off the child locks and that's when I see the tractor trailer bearing down in the side-view mirror. It's closing in on the cop and I reach out the open window grabbing for his tie, and not having a clue what's going on the cop puts a round into the roof of the Datsun, but I've got him by the shirtfront between the buttons and yank him forward into the car onto Mark's lap and the truck goes by like a train and we all feel the breeze and the cop looks at me, our faces inches apart. We all smile a bit, like we're lucky to be alive because we are. We're lucky to be alive.

.