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twenty-something,” Jack tells me, “and they’re laughing. What a couple of freaks.”
    And then it hits me—at 140 kilometers an hour. “Chase’s dealers.”
    Jack’s head swivels to the front. He looks at me in alarm. “What do they want with you?”
    â€œThey probably think I’m Chase. They must have heard he got out.”
    The Passat pulls into the lane next to us and comes alongside of me. I have just enough time to recognize Ratchet and DC before a siren suddenly sounds. It is so close it’s like it has started up inside my head. In the rearview mirror, I spot the flash of the light on the roof of a police car coming up behind us.
    â€œI don’t believe this,” Jack slides down in his seat. “The cops.” The word comes out a little like a balloon losing its air.
    As I begin to slow down to pull over, I am aware of the Passat taking off at lightning speed. The cops don’t pursue them; instead, they follow me until I’ve come to a stop on the shoulder of the highway. Jack opens the door and starts to get out.
    â€œRemain in your vehicle,” orders an amplified voice.
    Jack pulls his leg back into the car like he’s been bit by a snake. He slams the door. “What should we do?”
    â€œStay in the car like they said.”
    â€œWhy do they want us to do that?”
    In the rearview mirror, I can see the two cops approaching the car. One is a graying, middle-aged guy, the other has a mustache and is younger byabout ten years. They each have a hand on their holster. “Because they think we’re criminals.”
    Jack groans as I roll down the window.
    â€œAny idea how fast you were going?” the older cop who is on my side of the car asks.
    â€œSome idea. Probably close to one twenty.”
    â€œTry one forty-seven,” he replies. “Can I see your registration and license?”
    I dig my license out of my wallet. “Don’t go anywhere,” he says, waving the license in the air. He takes both documents back to his car while the cop with the mustache remains next to the Honda. Jack and I sweat it out for ten minutes until he returns. He speaks to his partner before speaking to us. “Out of the car,” he orders.
    Jack and I get out. They have us put our hands on the roof of the car while they pat us down for weapons or drugs, I’m really not sure what. They then ask for the car keys, lock Dad’s car and follow us back to their own vehicle where we are told to sit in the backseat. It turns out that Dad’s car has seven outstanding parking violations. It also has been spotted in front of some well-known drug houses. Chase. Again. They are taking us to the police station to clear it up.
    Jack and I both protest that we can’t leave our guitars just lying out in the open in the backseat. The young guy looks at the old guy, who finally nods. At least we are able to convince him of this. We give up our jackets, andthe younger cop returns to the Honda where he throws them across the backseat.
    â€œI am sooo screwed,” Jack whines on the drive to the station. He can’t sit still. His knees are jiggling, and he cracks his knuckles like he always does when he gets nervous. “My parents will kill me when they hear how fast we were going. It’s already like they’re handing over the keys to Fort Knox when I ask them for the car.”
    I feel a little sorry for him. He has only one sibling, a sister who is not even ten. He’s never experienced the repercussions of living with a criminal like Chase. Although I can’t say many of my friends have.
    Once we arrive at the police station, we are asked to wait in a small room with a wobbly table and three straight-back chairs. After a twenty-minute delay, the two cops who picked us up saunter back into the room.
    â€œOkay.” The older guy balances on the edge of the chair across from us. The other one stands