License and registration.

The driver flinched, blinked a few times, and scrambled for the glove box.

He panicked, missed a latch.

When he finally opened it, paper spilled out, and he sat there frozen before scooping them up.

I've been a police officer for two decades.

Night shifts out in the country usually meant nothing more than drunk drivers, runaways from one of the nearby shelters, or coyote calls from ranchers with loose fencing.

It was rare for anything to linger in my mind after a shift ended.

Most of it was the same monotony repeated again and again.

But that night was different.

That one etched itself in slow, vivid pieces.

I still haven't managed to fully pull apart.

The moon had been high and full, casting a silver wash over everything.

I was parked off Country Road 8, half asleep, when a car zoomed past me, going at least two times the speed limit.

I sighed and figured it was just another guy out too late, probably drinking.

I flipped my lights on and found them pulled over near the bend without much resistance.

I walked up to the driver's side. The car was an old Toyota, probably early 2000s,

primer patches on the fender, muffler rattling.

Both men inside looked wrecked. The driver was gripping the wheel hard enough that I could see the tension pushing veins through the skin. His hair was flattened with sweat. The guy in the passenger seat stared forward, not blinking, hands in his lap.

That's where it all began.

The driver handed me his license with both hands finally.

His voice cracked when he spoke.

Can you give us a fine? Anything,

...