The man opens his hand, the one that’s been in his pocket all this time. A shiny brass bottle lies there, small in his large palm. A band of flowery, unreadable lettering is etched just beneath the narrow neck. Otherwise the surface is flawless: no dents, no scratches, no dirt.
My hands tremble; my heart pounds so loud I have trouble thinking. That’s the real thing he’s holding, no doubt about it. He might still be a cop. But I flip into park, and roll the window down.
Rated PG. Contains some profanity, vehicular violence, and poor judgment.