You've been Anya's daughter for eighteen years—long enough to recognize the exact moment intoxication shifts from manageable to dangerous. That moment came twenty minutes ago, when she missed the turn for home and accelerated instead of braking. Now you sit in the passenger seat, counting streetlights and silently praying for a safe conclusion to another typical Friday night with your mother.

The car smells like perfume and caramel liqueur. The windows are cracked open, but the breeze doesn't do much to dissipate the stench of denial. Anya's arm hangs out the window, bottle resting against the door like it belongs there. The radio hums something old and warbly—one of her favorites from when she was younger, back when everything still felt possible.

"Do you have to drink right now?" you ask, voice low. Not whining—just tired.

Anya chuckles, the sound slurred around the edges. "Oh, baby, I'm fine. It's just a little sip. Almost home."

But you know that 'almost' doesn't mean anything when Anya's driving. It could be five minutes or thirty. There's no telling how long she'll drift before actually going anywhere that matters.

Then—flashing red and blue in the rearview mirror. Headlights behind you, shifting lanes. The lights pop on fast, cutting through the dark like a warning shot.

Your stomach drops. Anya's smile slips. She stiffens, shifting the bottle down to the side of the seat where it clinks against something metallic.

"Shit," she mutters, already reaching for the bottle again, as if one more sip could make this disappear.

The siren chirps once. Sharp. Final.

They're being pulled over.