There are so many things that can go wrong with a car. His car, in particular.
There's a rear light that flickers.
A rear bumper that's come loose.
The registration sticker expired recently.
When he has time, he'll do something about that.
Time, right.
He doesn't care about nicks and scratches.
He's been through a lot, why should his car be different?

It's a warm night. He dropped his friend off at the uptown apartment.
Usually they would take the subway. Why did they take the car tonight?
He doesn't mind driving at night but there's no place to park.
He's circling the blocks around his apartment.
The circles get larger and larger, more aimless.
A quick turn through a stop light, no other cars around, except for all the parked ones.
Maybe there's a space down this street.
Maybe there's free ice cream and a pony, too, who knows.
Then the red and blue lights flashing in his rearview mirror.
Oh god.

So we have to say it now:
If you've been assuming our friend is white, well... okay,
don't beat yourself up about it,
but you have to stop assuming it now.
Right now, at the moment when the lights flash in the rearview mirror,
in the neighborhood with all the parked cars,
after midnight.

Our friend has rehearsed for this moment, the moment happening right now.
He goes through the checklist in his mind.
Each item on the checklist helps him stay calm.
Stopping the car,
turning on the light in the car,
taking his wallet out of his pocket,
taking out his driver's license,
placing it on the dashboard,
rolling down the window,
taking off his jacket,
rolling up his sleeves,
putting both his hands on the steering wheel,
what else
oh yes
doing all this without looking rushed,
looking in the mirror, where the officer walking toward his car is getting larger and larger.
He got through the checklist in under fifteen seconds.

And then the flashlight beam hit his eyes.
“Whaddaya doing out here tonight?”
“Just looking for a parking spot. Sir.”
“Where you from?”
“This is my neighborhood, sir. I live a few blocks away.”
“If you live a few blocks away why are you parking here?”
“There weren't any parking spots closer to my building, sir.”
“Where's your license?”
Checklist item number five sure did its job.
“My license is right here on the dashboard, sir, would you like me to hand it to you?”
“Let me see it. Where's your registration?”

At which point, our friend realized he forgot to take his proof of registration out of the glove compartment.
That was checklist item number — what, six? Doesn't matter now.
Now a story unfolds in the space of ten seconds,
each second different from the last.
Our friend experienced these seconds in a kind of elongated time.

We will tell you about each of the ten seconds.

Second number one was a pause.
During the pause, our friend felt his hands begin to tremble against the steering wheel. He heard voices in the future saying “His hands were trembling”. Trembling hands, that proves he was on something. What type of something? Any type of something. Doesn't matter now.

Second number two. His voice spoke, mostly to drown out the voices in the future. “It's in the glove compartment.” He heard his voice shaking.
Shaking voice. Proves he was on — same thing. Something.

Second number three. His voice dug in deeper.
“There's nothing else in there,” his voice said.
Meaning the glove compartment.
That was a lie.
When was the last time he'd cleaned the glove compartment?
There's all sorts of garbage in the glove compartment.
The officer couldn't possibly believe our friend has an empty glove compartment.
Nobody has an empty glove compartment.
Now, if he were to open the glove compartment, the officer would see the garbage in the glove compartment and jump to conclusions.

Second number four:
another pause.
It's a pause too long. The officer steps back from the car.
“Get out of the car.”
Our friend hears a click.

The click was second number five.
Our friend's hands tremble against the steering wheel.
He can't get out of the car without opening the door.
Which would mean reaching for the door handle.
Which means the officer would lose sight of his hand,
would see him reaching down for something. What type of something?

Second number six.
He has the idea that he could reach through the open window and open the door from the outside.
But if he reaches through the window, the officer will think he's trying to grab the gun which is now pointed at him.
“I'm going to open the car door,” his trembling voice and hands say.
“Don't move!” shouts the officer.

Second number seven.
He freezes. His face and hands framed in the driver side window, the round beam of light.
A wind blows up.
The wind sweeps the back of his hands, the back of his neck,
as if they were fields of spoiling crops.
A stack of multicolored notecards on the passenger seat beside him lifts into the wind.

It's as if the wind — this is second number eight — is coming from inside his car. The notecards blow out the car window, into the officer's face.
The officer waves his arms against the sudden cloud, his fingers clench the gun,

and it's second number nine: a hail of bullets launched into a swarm of notecards —
the notecards slice at the officer's hand, the gun falls to the pavement.
Concrete shards splay into the air, air and ground now joined.
Darkness.
A far off dog bark.
A split second of rain.

Second number ten
... has to be inferred.
A lamppost drizzles dim light through mist.
No one experiences it.
The dog barks, just once again.
Our friend is slumped in his driver's seat, chin on chest.
The police officer is nowhere to be seen.

When backup arrives, some minutes and some seconds later, they find the officer's gun on the ground, bulletholes in the car, our friend passed out in his car, unharmed.
He seems to have fainted.
Otherwise he seems fine.
A raven, perched on the roof of our friend's car, flies off as the officers approach.
They find our friend's license and registration displayed clearly on the dashboard.
Next to him, on the passenger's seat, a pile of one hundred multicolored notecards, neatly stacked.
The notecards describe moments of joy he has experienced in the course of his life.