That night, the highway was swallowed by a blizzard. Snow pounded the windshield so fiercely the wipers only smeared it into a milky haze. I clutched the steering wheel, barely able to make out the road ahead.
Yulia sat beside me, pale as paper, her damp hair clinging to her temples.
“It’s getting worse…” she whispered, gripping her stomach.
She wasn’t due for another two weeks. We hadn’t expected labor to start so soon. When we called an ambulance to our country house, the dispatcher refused.
“The roads are blocked. If you want to make it, drive.”
So I drove — fast. I saw the speed limit sign, yes. But when your wife is crying in pain, you’re not thinking about numbers.
Then the blue lights flashed.
I pulled over.
The inspector stepped out unhurriedly, like he had all evening. Tall, broad, wearing a smug half-smile. He tapped the window with his baton.
“Where’s the rush?” he asked. “Practicing for a rally?”
“My wife is in labor. We need to get to the city hospital. Please,” I said.
He glanced at her struggling for breath.
“And that smell in the car?” he added suspiciously.
“I had one drink earlier. Hours ago. I’m fine. That’s not what matters right now.”
“Out of the vehicle,” he interrupted. “We’ll test you.”
I stepped into the freezing wind wearing only a sweatshirt. My hands shook — not from cold, but from anger.
The breathalyzer read 0.18.
A reasonable officer might have shown discretion. He didn’t.
“Speeding. Alcohol. License revoked,” he said flatly.
