It was just after midnight when I pulled him over. The car had been drifting slightly between lanes, not enough to cause a scene, but enough to raise concern. Out on that stretch of road, at that hour, you learn to trust your instincts. Most stops are routine—expired tags, tired drivers, maybe someone who’s had a little too much to drink. You approach, ask a few questions, and move on.
But the moment I stepped out of my cruiser and saw the car up close, something felt off.
The paint was dull, almost peeling in places. One of the rear lights was cracked, barely holding together. And through the window, I could see movement—quick, nervous, like someone trying to stay very still at the same time.
