She had far too much to drink the night before to be in charge of a hunk of metal and plastic. When the sirens wheeled their reds and blues in the rearview mirror, it was no real suprise. Hand over hand, she nonchalently turned the wheel until the car was parked on the gravel of the highway. Kicking the cans under the front seats, she ran her tongue over her furred teeth, swept a hand through her hair and wound down the already open window, which had slid three weeks ago into the cavity filled with mysterious mechanisms that refused to push the glass in either direction.

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'Where ya headed', the copper drawls, his vowels thick and loaded in the heat. He was either pretending not to notice the winding embarrassment, or was uninterested. There can't be too many cars going to ass end of nowhere, she thought. Don't panic. He hasn't seen who is in the back seat yet, and she's being ever such a good girl, all quiet and polite.

'Up the road a ways', she croaks. 'Sorry. Bit dry'. One side of her brain kicks the other side, hard. She fumbles for the water bottle on the front seat where it had sat since they took the motor, and the plastic thinly crinkles as she undoes the cap and takes a warm sip, trying not to gag. She squints at the copper and smiles, hoping that furry teeth are not something that can be seen.

'Your brakelight's out on the left' he says, wavering between helpful and authorititive.

'Oh,' she offers, tugging down the chrome of the handle hard and fast the way she knows to do it so the door actually opens. It's half down to luck and half skill that will, but she's lucky this time, and stepping out onto the hot tar and fussing round to the rear of Rusty's 1971 Valiant like she knew what to do about that. His eyes follow her, then his boots. As long as he's not looking at the back seat.

It doesn't take long to realise she's made a ridiculous error. One can't tell that the brakelights are out - one has to press the pedal to the floor and have someone call 'yeppppppppppppppppp' from the rear. She laughs and says as much. It was probably her finest girl meets cop bimbo moment since she was caught speeding and told them the reason for it was that she was running out of petrol.

'Your car?' he says. He's sliding his eyes down it appreciatively.

'My man's', she says. 'Rusty Johnson's.' She's taking a risk. That morning she'd crept out of Rusty's bed, stole his wallet and his dog, and his beloved Chrysler, and had made it three hundred kilometres down the highway without throwing up. The licorice black of the road had slipped underneath her and made her head spin, but she had guzzled Rescue Remedy like the brandy it was, smoked half a stale pack of Winnie Blues, and made it across the border.

'Johnno?' the copper drawls. 'He's my brother in law. Any mate of his is a mate of mine', he says, shutting his book and touching his hat like a fool. She knows he has a shallow grave waiting for him down the road when Rusty finds out he let her through, but for now, the poor lad thinks he's saving his skin by letting Rusty's girl go. If he'd seen his brother in law's favourite girl on the back seat, she supposed her story would be over.

She allows herself the luxury of leaning against the hot steel of the bonnet and smokes half a dart before the tail lights disappear in the distance. It's a big country and the roads are long. She'll be long gone before Rusty's woken up. A big night they'd had. She wishs she could brush her teeth, spat on the curb and watched the dust rush to envelop it, clambers back in, slams the door twice to be sure, and starts the engine. It roars viscerally and gutterally into life.

"You right there, girl?' she says to the rear view mirror, smiling at the green eyes of the cattledog on the back seat. She didn't know who she loved more - the car or the dog, so took them both. Before long they're a few hundred miles down the track, her and Rusty's best girl, wind in whiskers and hair alike.