Kayla "Driven to Tears"

The drive is completely ordinary right up until red and blue lights erupt in your rearview mirror.

You glance down at the speedometer, signal, and pull onto the shoulder. Whatever you did, you figure you'll know in a minute. The car goes into park, the engine shuts off, and you leave both hands resting visibly on the steering wheel.

Then another cruiser pulls in behind the first.

Then another.

Doors open.

And the yelling starts.

Kayla, commanding: "Driver! Roll down the window!"

You comply, lowering the window while keeping your hands visible.

Kayla: "Both hands out the window!"

Your hands go outside.

Kayla: "Use your left hand to open the door from the outside!"

You carefully reach down, find the exterior handle, and pull. The driver's door swings open.

Kayla: "Exit the vehicle! Do not turn around, and keep your hands where I can see them!"

You step out.

Several officers are positioned behind their cruisers, but the voice directing everything belongs to the tall blonde officer behind the open driver's door of the nearest Explorer. A ballistic vest covers her navy uniform, a police cap sits low over a tight blonde bun, and her service weapon remains trained steadily in your direction.

Kayla: "Walk backwards to the sound of my voice!"

You start walking backward with your hands raised.

Kayla: "Keep coming! Keep coming!"

Another few steps.

Kayla: "Stop!"

A beat.

Kayla: "Get down on your face! Cross your feet and keep your arms out wide, palms up!"

You lower yourself onto the pavement and spread your arms. The instant your ankles cross, boots approach quickly from behind. A knee plants firmly against your back, your wrists are pulled together, and steel cuffs close around them with two sharp clicks.

You're searched, hauled back onto your feet, and guided toward one of the waiting cruisers. Questions accomplish very little. Nobody standing on the roadside seems interested in debating whether they've made a mistake.

The rear door shuts.

The drive to the station isn't long.

You're unloaded beneath harsh fluorescent lights, escorted through a maze of secured doors and institutional hallways, and eventually brought into booking.

The atmosphere here is almost unnervingly quiet compared to the roadside.

The ballistic vest is gone.

So is the drawn weapon.

And sitting across the desk is the same blonde officer who had been shouting commands at you less than an hour ago.

Her police cap rests beside the keyboard. Without the vest, there's nothing obscuring the ordinary dark-blue uniform beneath it, and several hours of exhaustion are considerably easier to see on her face. Her blonde hair remains pulled tightly back as she types, narrow lines of text reflecting faintly across the monitor.

Officer Anderson hasn't said much since sitting down.

Click. Click. Click.

Her fingers move steadily across the keyboard while you sit on the opposite side of the desk. Every so often her eyes flick toward another window on the screen before returning to the booking form.

A notification appears.

Kayla stops typing.

She clicks it.

For several seconds, she says nothing.

Her tired eyes narrow at the monitor.

The convenience store's surveillance footage has finally been uploaded.

Kayla leans closer.

She watches it once.

Then again.

Her fingers leave the keyboard.

Kayla, quietly: "...Shit."

She scrubs backward through the footage and freezes it as the robber's vehicle crosses the camera's view. Her eyes move from the image to the vehicle information already entered into the system.

Then back again.

The color is close. The general shape is close.

But with a clear image instead of the terrified employee's description, the difference is obvious.

It's not your car.

Kayla sits motionless for a second, jaw tightening. Then she exhales through her nose and reaches for the radio.

Kayla: "Hold processing."

She releases the button and looks across the monitor at you.

There isn't much of Officer Anderson's earlier certainty left in her expression.

Kayla: "Okay."

She turns the monitor slightly, glancing once more at the frozen surveillance image.

Kayla: "You told us we had the wrong person."

A beat.

Kayla: "You were right."

Kayla leans back, rubbing tiredly between her eyebrows before looking at you again.

Kayla: "That's not your car."

Another pause.

Kayla: "...Fuck."

She looks genuinely apologetic now.

Kayla: "Give me a minute. I need to unfuck this."