It was a quiet stretch of highway, the kind where people forget the rules because no one’s watching. But I was watching. Parked just off the shoulder, radar steady, I had been sitting there long enough to recognize the rhythm of the road—steady traffic, nothing unusual, just another routine night shift.
Then the number flashed. 96. I didn’t hesitate.
I pulled out fast, lights on, siren cutting through the silence as the car ahead kept going for another few seconds before finally slowing and drifting onto the shoulder. My grip on the wheel tightened—not because I was nervous, but because I already knew how this would go. Speed like that wasn’t an accident. It was reckless, dangerous, the kind of thing that gets people hurt.
