"Because your taillights are barely visible through that trash bag," the officer said, his tone neutral. "It’s a safety hazard. And quite a noise violation, I imagine."
"It is. Drive straight home. Don't get on the highway again; the draft is dangerous at high speeds. Get that glass installed before you drive anywhere else. If I see you again tomorrow with the window still out, I won't be this lenient."
"You can't drive it like this. The lights are obscured. Call a tow truck, or have a friend pick up the glass and leave the car here."
Elias’s stomach dropped through the floorboards. He signaled, merged right, and pulled onto the shoulder, the plastic sheet flapping a frantic eulogy. He rolled down his window, letting the rain mist his face.
