Abigail rode shotgun in the squad car. She refused the backseat because the doors that locked on the inside. Pain swept through her like a forest fire, smoking and burning across her lower body, up her back, into her arms and shoulders. She’d need an ice bath after all of this. She imagined how funny her old students would find it that she’d jumped out of a moving car at 87. Or how amazed her nephew would be when she told him how “safe” the old folks’ home he’d sent her to really was. Imagine what they’d all say if they knew she was riding in the front seat of a stolen police cruiser. Old age had tried to cut her adventures short, but she just went right on having them, keeping her wits about her when her body was too slow to prese...

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