MILA DIDN'T KNOW MUCH about Indiana. What little she knew came from Parks and Recreation. Lots of borderline racist white people. Probably the most boring state. Mila toyed with the radio, thumbing through the channels until she found one she liked—a local pop rock station.

    "Gooooooood morning, Greenfield!" the station's host chirped.

    "Oh, shut up," Mila responded. "Nobody should be that happy to live in Indiana." Mila wasn't a morning person. She wasn't a night person either. She was barely even a person at all.

    She moved her hand back to the steering wheel. It took more effort than usual, like her arm was made of lead. No, it wasn't that her arm was made of lead—it was her head.

    She shook her head, squinting at the flat, sleety road. Even the cars seemed to be moving slower than usual like they were also made of lead. She rubbed her eyes. Nope. The cars were still moving too slowly.

    Mila turned to check her blind spot. She felt like she was moving in a strobe light, like everything happened several times before it really did happen, and by then it had taken far too long. It was like she'd woken from a deep nap, when you wake up and it's dark out and you don't know who, where, or what you are. What's wrong with me? she wondered. And then it hit her.

    She'd taken motion sickness medicine this morning. She'd never been in the driver's seat before, so it'd never caused problems in the past, but her motion sickness medicine was effectively a tranquilizer. It could knock her out for days.

    She considered pulling over, but even her thoughts came in slow motion. She looked at her speedometer. Fifty. The speed limit was... she searched for a sign. Seventy.

HHHHHHHHHHHHOOOOOOOOOOOONNNNNNNNNNNKKKKKKKKKK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

A car flew straight toward her.

She was in the whole-ass wrong lane.

Mila screamed and yanked the wheel to the right, her car careening back into the right lane. She needed to pull over. She was going to get herself killed.

Red and blue lights flashed behind her. A siren screamed.

    "FUCK!" Mila howled.

    She scanned the road. There weren't that many cars out at this time of day, but there were enough to hide her. She could gun it, weave through traffic, outrun the cop. But what was she thinking? That was a surefire way to get herself killed, even if she was at full capacity. But getting stopped by the police would squash her plan before she could even...

    Mila glanced in her rearview mirror. The cop wove his way through traffic, trailing behind her. He lifted one hand off the wheel and pointed sideways, gesturing for Mila to pull over. Her stomach turned. Of course the cop would be a white man. Sweat pooled beneath her palms, making it impossible to get a solid grip on the wheel.

    She needed to decide, like, yesterday. Before the cop suspected her of anything other than bad driving.

    Mila swallowed her fear. Her foot itched to slam on the gas, but she pulled over to the side of the road, slowing to a stop amid all the slush. The cop followed her and parked behind her. He walked to Mila's car. She rolled her window down and said a prayer.

    "Hey." The cop gave her a fish-eating grin. Or—no, it wasn't fish-eating. It was flirtatious. This was Mila's worst nightmare.

    "'Morning, officer." Mila looked at his name tag, read it, knew what it was. Refused to call him by it, even in her head. He was just the cop. A depersonalized entity.

    "Do I know you?" he asked. "You look awful familiar. Did ya go to the high school here?"

    "No." Mila's hands shook on the steering wheel. "I can't say I know you. I guess I just have one of those faces."

    "You were driving in the wrong lane for a sec there," he explained like he was talking to a child. He tilted his head condescendingly. "Any reason why?"

    Mila kept her mouth shut. She didn't have to say anything. She had the right to remain silent.

"Ma'am, would you please step out of the vehicle?"

Mila screwed her face up at him. "Why?" she challenged.

"So I can take it for a joyride." There it was again—that fish-eating grin. Was he flirting or an asshole? Maybe both? Mila couldn't decide which was more horrifying. "I'm just messin' with ya. I need to do a breathalyzer test, make sure you're not under the influence. And grab your license and registration while you're at it, would ya? I need to take a look-see."

Mila's heart froze in her chest.

She had a fake license. But she'd forgotten to fake any registration papers for this car.

    She reached for her bookbag in the passenger seat, where her gun was hidden. Could she do it? She didn't have time to decide.

    "Of course." Mila patted her pockets as if checking where she had placed them. "I think they're in my bag, gimme a sec..."

    No, the question wasn't if she could do it. She knew she could. The question was if she could get away with it. She unzipped the bag, pretending to look for her license.

Worst case scenario, she'd miss. She wouldn't be quick enough. She'd get shot instead. And the cop, of course, would be seen as the hero. She, after all, was the one with the gun.

Or maybe she'd kill him, but get caught. Maybe the cop had a body camera. (As if!) Maybe he was recording everything. Maybe her face would go viral, she'd be found, and she'd be thrown behind bars. She could kiss any chance of freedom goodbye.

Or maybe she'd injure the cop, but not kill him. She would have time to escape, but this new identity would be a wanted woman. She'd have to reinvent herself all over again, kill Sofía like she'd killed Mila. She worried she'd spend the rest of her life killing herself over and over again, if she kept this up.

Best case scenario, she killed the cop and could manage to slip away undetected.

    She wasn't sure she could pull it off—but what other choice did she have?

She didn't have her registration. She'd be exposed as a fraud. She couldn't risk getting in legal trouble. Her fake ID would be fine for getting a job or hopping on a plane. But the holes in her identity would unravel if it was legally questioned. She didn't have a fake social security number, birth certificate, or anything else that could verify her identity. Not yet.

She was screwed.

She needed to kill him. Kill him or run. But running wasn't an option; more than likely, running would get her shot or arrested—or both.

Killing him was the only option.

Her fingers closed around the gun's handle. She peered out the window. Who was watching? Were there witnesses?

The other drivers were more focused on themselves than the girl pulled over on the side of the road. But a gunshot would catch their attention.

"Miss?" asked the cop. "Having any luck?"

She was taking too long, way too long. She needed to make a decision. Her hands were wrapped around the gun's handle. She could do it. She knew she had it in her. She lifted the gun out of the bag. But...

Mila knew she couldn't get away with this. Not now, not like this. With proper planning, more time, and less witnesses, she knew she could. But she was unprepared. There were too many people around. She had no plan, no way to get rid of the body. And this was a cop. A white male cop. When some people were killed, they were less dead. Prostitutes, street kids, anyone nobody would care about—people like her, now. But when white male cops were killed, they were more dead. His death was worth more than Mila's life ever would be.

She'd be caught if she killed him. No doubt about it. She'd get arrested, spend the rest of her life in prison. Did Indiana have the death penalty? Could you get the death penalty for shooting a cop? Mila didn't know. But even if not, she'd be done for. She'd never get revenge—or freedom.

She couldn't kill the cop. There was too much at stake, too much she could lose. She needed to find another way. Peggy'd taught her self-defense. She could knock him out, escape while he was unconscious, even though she'd only have seconds.

She let go of the gun and slid on a thick glove. She couldn't get any DNA on him. Slowly, she zipped her bag up. She flexed and unflexed her fingers and climbed out of the car.

"Find anything?" he asked, casually.

"No," Mila answered, truthfully.

She curled her hand into a fist, reeled her arm backward, and punched him square in the jaw. Pain shot through her hand and up her wrist, so strong it was numbing. She'd never punched anyone before. She yelped, shaking her hand out. She hadn't expected it to hurt her that badly.

But she'd done it. The punch knocked the cop out cold. His eyes rolled back in his head. He wobbled on his feet, then fell backward, slamming into the slush on the side of the highway. Mila took a moment to revel in his crumpled body, the blood smeared on his police uniform. She bounced on her feet, adrenaline shooting through her veins like a shot of straight caffeine.

"Whew!" she exhaled.

But she didn't have any time to waste. Unless she'd caused some serious brain damage, she had thirty seconds before he came to. Maybe he'd be half-lucid and have no idea where he was. Maybe he'd be too slow to shoot her. But she couldn't take that chance. He could wake up swinging. He could kill her.

Mila jumped into the car, slammed the door shut, and jammed her keys into the ignition. She stomped on the gas. The car shot forward. She glanced up at the rearview mirror. The cop groggily sat up, rubbing his bloodied jaw.

"Bastard," Mila mumbled, because all cops were.