The flashing blue lights appear overhead almost simultaneously with the collision. “Back up! Pull over!” a voice blares. Behind me, two cops are leaving their car, walking my way. The drone hovers like a mad hornet, observing.

I lower the window of my Prius while studying the offending stop sign, comically akilter. Oddly, I still feel pretty good.

“Are you injured?” The eyes behind the glasses are focused about a foot in front of my face. Data specs. Probably reading my irises and pulling down my history.

“Please exit the vehicle.”

I look at his badge—P. Chute.

A thought to call Anna flashes by, quickly quashed. She’s the last person I should be calling right now.

“Operator’s license.” The officer scans it across his specs.

“So, Mr. Larrabee, what happened?”

“Not sure. It’s all a bit fuzzy . . .”

“Fuzzy, huh? Stay right there,” the officer orders.

While he steps away, I pull out my phone to text Anna, say I’ll be late—nope, bad idea. Just thinking about her would spike my dopamine level over the limit.

And I hadn’t reported our relationship to the authorities.

“Hey!” shouts the other cop. “Put that phone away! You’re not calling anybody until we run a dope test!”

I pocket the phone.

How did things get so screwed up? I wonder. We used to have rights in this country. And “dope” tests were for illegal drugs, not naturally occurring hormones.

As Anna, who’s a lawyer, has explained, everything changed after the Supreme Court overturned Roe v. Wade in 2022, denying any right to abortion based on privacy and suggesting there were no constitutional rights to privacy whatsoever. It was centered on something called “originalism,” and the fact that most Americans in the 18^th and 19^th centuries lived in one-room cabins.

Where they apparently had no “reasonable expectation of privacy.”

Anyway, the Court said states should decide whether privacy rights exist, and most, including mine, decided they didn’t. Except for corporations, of course.

Next, some study found the body’s dopamine response to the “early stages of romantic attachment” (or ESRA) was indistinguishable from that induced by narcotics. Then, a pharmaceutical company devised a finger-prick blood test instantly measuring dopamine levels.

From there, several states passed laws making it illegal to drive when, for whatever reason, dopamine levels exceeded “normal.” In states like mine, “normal” is based on a randomly-selected sample of white, middle-aged, Republican males married to the same woman for at least 20 years.

So, the legal maximum is pegged to a very low level.

It occurs to me that a limit based on a sample of Democrats would be considerably higher and, well, is it paranoid to think maybe the law was intended to keep liberals off the roads? Like, around elections?

Regardless, anyone in ESRA must now report to a special office—the ESRA Tracking and Reporting Office (ESRATRO), generally located in a former family planning clinic—and undergo weekly dopamine tests. No one above the limit can drive.

Considering all that is making me glum, but that’s the point. Anna suggested this exercise to lower my dopamine level if I ever found myself in this predicament.

Damn, just thought of her again. Now I’ll have to start all over. . . .

A cop reappears. “Sir, do you have any contraceptives in the vehicle? Frozen embryos?”

Officer Chute interrupts. “You need to give us your cellphone and password. Then, my partner will run a dope test on you.”

They’re entitled to all that now. I hand over the phone.

“Password’s Anna,” I say sheepishly. I’d come up with it while in ESRA.

“Who’s Anna? Your wife?”

“No, girlfriend.”

“Tell us about her.”

I figure the cop, highly trained and probably on his third marriage, knew getting me to talk about a girlfriend would raise my dopamine level, at which point the test would be administered, and my goose would be cooked.

So, I quickly perform a mental substitution, swapping out you-know-who for my ex in my thoughts.

My ex can drop dopamine levels like nobody.

“Well,” I begin, “she’s got yellow teeth and the disposition of a rabid badger. . . .”

Officer Chute scowls and breaks in.

“You know, we can arrest you for attempting to provide misleading blood results. Let’s give you the test now.”

Extending my finger, I get an idea. I’m skeptical of spontaneous ideas these days, on account of the ESRA—it’s like most of my brain is on permanent vacation, checking in only occasionally and leaving the rest of it to remember things like oil changes, paying bills, and how to avoid getting arrested—but I see no alternative. Then I remember—it wasn’t my idea, it was hers. To be used as a last resort.

“OK,” I say, “first let me show you something.”

I take them through the hidden photos of Anna on the phone—the ones under triple lock security—yes, those photos. While scrolling through the collection, I tell them all about her.

They’ve stopped asking questions and are studying the photos carefully. My own brain has become a dopamine orgy.

The junior cop glances up with a dopey look on his face, which then registers a moment of clarity.

“Sergeant!” he barks. “Permission to be relieved?”

“What are you talking about, Charlie?” asks Officer Chute.

“Sir, I am no longer able to perform my duties and am obliged to report myself to ESRATRO,” Charlie says in a loud, determined voice.

Anyone could see Charlie was under the influence of ESRA. The cross-examination at trial would be disastrous.

Officer Chute returns the cell, glancing up at the drone.

“Alright, Mr. Larrabee. Just a warning this time, but be sure to drive straight home and get yourself down to ESRATRO first thing tomorrow. Understood?”

I nod. The cops walk quickly back to their cruiser, the drone trailing.

I look at my phone: November 2, 2032, Tuesday. 6:20 PM. Still time to make the polling station.

I hit Anna’s number and feel the familiar warm flush.