“Man oh man,” said Floyd Spear, sitting beside Lincoln in the cruiser. “Doreen got her snookerful today.”

“I’ve been on the road all morning,” said Lincoln. “Didn’t get a chance to check up on her.” He turned on the siren, hoping that would induce Doreen to slow down. She sped up.

“Now what?” asked Floyd. “Want me to call for backup?”

Backup meant Hank Dorr, the only other officer on patrol duty that morning.

“No,” said Lincoln. “Let’s see if we can’t talk her into pulling over.”

“At sixty miles an hour?”

“Get on the bullhorn.”

Floyd picked up the mike and his voice boomed out over the speaker: “Hey, Doreen, pull over! C’mon, Sweetheart, you’re gonna hurt someone!”

The Chevy just kept dipping and weaving.

“We could wait till she runs Out of gas,” Floyd suggested.

“Keep talking to her.”

Floyd tried the mike again. “Doreen, Lincoln’s here! C’mon, Sweetheart, pull over! He wants ta ‘pologize!”

“I want to what?”

“Pull over, Doreen, and he’ll tell you himself!”

“What in hell are you talking about?” said Lincoln.

“Women always expect a man to apologize.”

“But I didn’t do anything!”

Up ahead, the Chevy’s brake lights suddenly lit up.

“See?” said Floyd as the Chevy rolled to a stop at the side of the road.

Lincoln pulled up behind it and climbed out of the cruiser. Doreen sat hunched behind the steering wheel, her red hair wild and tangled, her hands shaking.

Lincoln opened the door, reached over his wife’s lap, and removed the car keys.

“Doreen,” he said wearily, “you gotta come back to the station.”

“When are you coming home, Lincoln?” she asked.

“We’ll talk about that later. Come on, Honey, let’s get in the cruiser.” He reached for her elbow but she shook him off and slapped his hand for good measure.