Rain rapping lightly on the sunroof. The dark interior of the car.​ It was these details that struck the man upon waking. As he got up, he rubbed the sleep crust from his eyes, blinked, peered through the front windshield. Already he could hear the brassy music of morning traffic. The reddening horizon turned his face rosy, and he squinted again, both in reaction to the light and the realization of what he must do.

He eased his car out of the back alley, with its rusty dumpster and cracked asphalt, and turned slowly onto the main street. It was only a few turns before he reached the diner, a red-brick building with a wraparound awning and some outdoor seating. The neon sign above the front entrance  proclaimed “BEST PANCAKES EAST OF THE MISSISSIPPI.” He scoffed. 

The man parked in the street, thinking it more conducive to a quick getaway than the crowded parking lot in the back; the morning rush for breakfast could create some nasty bottlenecks.  

The diner’s door chime, which would mean nothing in happier times, made him feel self-conscious as he entered the building. The industrial lighting hurt his eyes, and he made his way to a table using his hand as a visor. It wasn't long before a young waitress in a cowboy hat—did this place only hire teenage girls?—walked up to him with notepad in hand, sunnily asked for his order. 

“I’ll have the, uh, the three-three-three deal, eggs over-easy. And some of that coffee cake. Thanks.” His voice came out croaky, but decided.

“Coming right up.” 

He had studied the menu the day before over free water. He would have to be quick and unobtrusive. A little too furtively, he scanned the restaurant for any liabilities. All he saw were working class people, some blue collar, some white, contributing to the general din of conversation or staring droopy-eyed at the morning paper. He allowed himself a sigh to calm his nerves. He turned his head to look outside the window, and his breath caught in his throat. Directly behind his car was a police cruiser.

As if on cue, the door chimed and two male officers strode into the restaurant. Through palpitations, he noticed the bulge of handguns against their blue uniforms, saw the casual way they talked with the chef, who leaned against the counter with an air of practiced ease, though it was clear there was some sort of connection. 

Interrupting his thoughts, the waitress set down his dish, steaming with three fried eggs, three pancakes and three pieces of bacon. Still, he kept his gaze on the officers, prompting an awkward look from the waitress that he didn’t see. Once they finished chatting, the officers  turned in his direction and he whipped his head around, picked up his fork with a trembling hand. A simple dine-and-dash shouldn't make me this nervous, he thought. First time’s always the hardest. 

Anxiety forced the food down quickly, then turned it sour in his stomach. The two cops were seated in the center of the diner, the face of one just visible above the shoulder of the other from where he sat against the back wall.

He could feel the hot breath of time on his neck. Without thinking, he got up, wrapping the coffee cake in a napkin and stuffing it in his jacket pocket. He was almost at the exit when he noticed the waitress walking out of the swinging kitchen doors to his right. Their eyes met, then: “wait, did you…” She threw a glance at his table, saw no money tucked under the empty plate, looked back at him with a mixture of fear and incredulity. He fumbled with words: “I was just, I mean—” Several people were looking his way now, including the cops, and the diner grew quiet. He felt a spinning ball of tension in his chest that was ready to explode. “I was just going to the bathroom,” he stammered. “I’ll be right back with the money.” 

“Oh—of course. I’ll be back around in a sec,” she smiled weakly. 

He made a few awkward turns before seeing the two doors marked “cowgirls” and “cowboys” down a hall to his left. Walking down the hall, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed with terror that the two cops were still staring at him.  

In the bathroom he plotted his next move. He would have to leave before long to avert suspicion. I’ll leave right as another patron walks through the door, create some confusion if anyone is watching, he thought. He pulled the hood of his jacket low over his brow, stared at his reflection in the mirror. A twentysomething with tousled brown hair, dark eyes and cracked lips stared back at him.

Someone walked in. He walked briskly out, then stopped short. The two officers stood blocking his path, each with arms crossed and a questioning look on their faces. But their eyes screamed smugness at having caught him. “After you,” one of them said innocently. He was taller and better looking  than the other. 

“Thanks,” the man mumbled, and he tried not to shake as he walked past them. He could feel the officers’ gaze without seeing it, and knew he must make a split-second decision. Any hesitation would spell defeat. Only a foot or two separated him from the exit and the officers behind him. Soft light spilled through the glass door; honking reached him from the street. 

Jaw clenched, heart throbbing, he feigned walking toward his table, actually taking a few steps in the opposite direction of where he wanted to go, then spun on his heel and leapt for the door. 

The next moments were difficult to synthesize with his memory, as adrenaline doused everything in a feverish haze. The tall officer, who was closest to him, lunged forward, grabbing his wrist and pulling hard. There was kicking, kneeing. Fabric pulled taught, then released. Cold air hit him and he tumbled out the door in the pattering rain.  

He was in his car before he knew what was happening. Trembling, he stuck the key in the ignition and tore out of his parking spot in the street, shattering the cop car’s left tail light in the process. Muffled shouts sounded from behind him, and in a few seconds he could hear the wail of sirens. What do I do, what do I do, he screamed internally. He darted a glance at his rear-view mirror to see the cops gaining and traffic parting like the Red Sea.

Major intersections were a death trap at this speed, he knew, and the morning traffic would deal the final blow to his escape before any collision did. So he turned onto a side street and floored the gas.

He barrelled past dirt lawns, barking dogs and duplexes with their chain-link fences, taking no heed of the side-mirrors he snapped off vehicles parked along the one-way street. In his rear-view mirror he saw the police cruiser swing dangerously onto the street before righting itself and racing to catch up with him, sirens blaring. 

Right, then left, then right again. Past a park, past a school, past parents walking their children to school, their screams lost in the rain and the roar of the engine. Each turn was tighter, more adjusted to the speed at which the car was traveling, and he could see and hear the cruiser receding in the distance. 

Everything was the road, and the road was everything. Its straight stretches, curves and turns became the source of all being—precious oxygen that could only be breathed at illegal speeds. For an instant, it thrilled him, dancing on the dividing wall between life and death. With a white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel and his foot pressed firmly on the gas pedal, he began to laugh hysterically, and tears fell from his eyes. The rain and tears cast a murky screen over his vision. He felt himself letting go of the wheel, wiping his eyes. The laughing stopped, replaced by a scream, and the car swerved off the street and slammed full-force into a fire hydrant. 

***

Water falling cold against his skin. The smell of smoke and blood. It was these details that struck the man upon waking.