Chapter 1: The Checkpoint of No Return

In the middle of the night, driving home, I came up on a DUI checkpoint. My wife and I were both scared out of our minds. I sat in the driver’s seat, shaking so hard my teeth nearly chattered. My wife was hidden in the trunk, curled up tight, her eyes wide open. The police cruiser’s lights were blinding in the darkness. I dug my nails into my palm, but my hands wouldn’t stop trembling, and my heart felt like it was about to explode out of my chest.

For a second, I thought I might die right there.

The dashboard clock glowed: 12:41 a.m. Sickly blue. The air in the car was thick with the sharp tang of sweat and stale coffee. I glanced at the empty passenger seat, where my wife’s purse sat, her favorite scarf half-hanging out—a ghost of her everyday life. Every muscle in my body felt wired, like I was about to jump out of my skin.

Somewhere in the distance, a coyote howled. Just another sound swallowed up by the wail of sirens and the whir of the checkpoint generator.

"Blow into this."

The trooper’s voice was flat. I blew into the device he held out, the plastic tip cold against my lips. For a split second, the world narrowed to the taste of plastic and the dry air in my throat.

He checked the reading. Didn’t wave me through. "You doing alright, sir?"

A faint trace of the trooper’s aftershave lingered as I handed the device back. I caught the glint of his badge—Trooper McKinley, Nebraska State Patrol. His voice had that flat, practiced calm of someone who’d seen too many bad nights.

Someone who’d seen too many bad nights.

"I’m fine," I managed, barely holding it together.

My voice sounded thin. Almost foreign, even to my own ears. I tried to keep my hands steady on the wheel, but they wouldn’t stop twitching. The trooper’s gaze bore into me, and for a split second, I wondered if he could see right through my skin, all the way down to the guilt crawling underneath my skin.

He stared at me, stone-faced. The seconds crawled by. Cold sweat ran down my forehead, and my hands shook even harder. I couldn’t breathe. In the rearview mirror, I saw the driver behind me craning his neck, impatient. The line of cars behind me stretched down the road, their headlights glaring.

Somewhere, a car radio played classic rock, muffled and distant, as if the world outside was moving on without me. Exhaust drifted in through the cracked window. I could hear the soft thunk of someone tapping their steering wheel, impatient.

The trooper’s jaw was tight as he reached out. "License and registration, please."

A spike of panic shot through me. My license was in the glove box. I leaned over, heart hammering, to grab it. The trooper’s eyes tracked my every move, making my skin crawl. I handed him the license, and he checked the photo, looking back and forth between it and me. Everything checked out. I just prayed he’d let me go soon. Behind me, car horns blared in a messy chorus. The cars in the opposite lane, also waiting their turn at the checkpoint, were all watching me.

My fingers fumbled with the registration slip. The paper crinkled loudly. The silence between us was heavy. The trooper’s flashlight beam danced over the dashboard, picking up every speck of dust. My mouth was dry as sandpaper. I kept my eyes down, hoping he wouldn’t notice how hard I was breathing.

But the officer didn’t let me go. Instead, flatly: "Pull over to the shoulder."

My heart dropped. For a split second, I almost slammed on the gas and tried to run. My wife’s body was in the trunk—if they found it, I was done for.

But I managed to hold on to a sliver of reason. Running was impossible. I wouldn’t make it two miles before the police caught me. Trying to escape would only make things worse. All I could do was play along, keep calm, and hope to bluff my way through. So I did as the trooper said, pulled over, killed the engine, took a shaky breath, and tried to settle my nerves.

The world outside the window seemed to narrow to a pinprick. I could hear the cicadas buzzing somewhere in the weeds. The distant hum of the interstate. I squeezed the steering wheel so hard my knuckles went white. I whispered a silent prayer—God, just let me get through this.

Just this once.

The officer who stopped me handed the breathalyzer to another cop and walked over to my window.

"Everything okay, officer? Was I over?"

He ignored me and started circling the car. I knew he was checking for signs of an accident. In the rearview, I watched as he stopped by the trunk, frowned, and stared at it.

"Pop the trunk."

The words hit me like a steel-toed boot to the gut. The world seemed to tilt. The air inside the car—suddenly too thin. I felt like I was drowning, my lungs refusing to fill.

I went cold all over.

My fingers went numb. I could hear my pulse pounding in my ears, louder than the distant highway.

I can’t do this.

"It’s kind of a mess back there," I stammered.

My stomach twisted.

"Why’s that?"

He looked at me. The red and blue lights flashed across his face, sharp and shadowed.

I could see the skepticism in his eyes, the way his lips pressed into a thin line. He was just waiting for me to slip up.

"There’s a bunch of unpublished manuscripts and contracts in the trunk," I managed, swallowing hard, trying to keep my voice steady.

I’m under contract not to show them to anyone.

The lie tasted sour in my mouth. I tried to play it cool, but my voice wavered. I pictured the boxes in the trunk, the way I’d crammed them in around her. I wondered if the officer could smell the fear rolling off me.

He was quiet for a moment. Then he pulled out his phone and called the county dispatcher. Sounded like he was checking for recent accidents. After a minute, he hung up and came back over.