Sometimes you find yourself living through something, and you realize that the people doing the things to you are acting out a script they have seen on TV, and so are you, but neither one of you can say anything to stop it and you both go along in a crazy sort of dance. That’s what it felt like in the back of the car. That’s what it felt like when we arrived at the station in minutes, and more cars whizzed past us, and a bunch of cops closed around us and nearly lifted me from the car. They don’t have enough to do, I thought. It was overkill. The cops liked parading around and having something big and important to do, only it wasn’t big and important, I wasn’t big and important, and Danny was definitely small potatoes. But as they moved me inside, a female cop suddenly appearing at my side, I thought of Danny’s eyes, his flashing look back and forth to the mirrors, and I recalled how quickly he had begun to drive hard. He understood something the cops understood, but that didn’t add up, and I kept asking, as they pulled me along a small corridor, why they were doing this, what had we done, what was going on.
