Behind me in the dark, the siren from the Polizia winds down. I punch the radio knob off. Dead silence, except for branches whipping back and forth in the freezing wind. My hands tighten on the wheel. They’re damp, sweaty.

I switch off the heat that’s blasting from the dash. I listen for the door of the cop car to crack open, for boots crunching on the icy pavement as they get closer.

I know I haven’t done anything wrong. I wasn’t speeding, I used my turn signal to change lanes, but what does that matter? I’ve been caught. I snap open the glove compartment and feel for my passport. Nothing, just napkins and the flimsy rental-car folder. It must be back at the hotel with my diplomatic papers.

I wipe steam from the rearview. In the car’s interior, red and blue lights from the Polizia pulse like the model of a beating heart. I feel my spine stiffen. I imagine the cop’s flashlight stabbing through the frosted window, illuminating my clenched expression. I know I look guilty.

Should I unlatch the door and make a run for it? I can see some woods beyond the shoulder, I could thrash through the underbrush and head for the hotel. It’s only a mile or two away. Would a helicopter be summoned to thrum overhead, a canine unit to yelp after my scent imprinted on the muddy ground?

I go for it. I ease the door open and roll out onto the pavement. Crouching low, I brush past the front bumper. Something smears my leg. I touch my fingers to it: blood. Jesus. I look down. There’s a sprinkle of broken glass on the pavement. Up ahead in the shadows, I can see a dark lump. A raccoon or possum? I sprint into the tarry darkness of the thick woods. Raising my elbows in front of me, I push through the thorny bramble, feet stumbling on icy patches. My breath steams out in big spurts.

There’s no time to think about the car, the cops, the blood. If there was an accident, an impact, I didn’t register it. Maybe the radio was too loud. I know that as a junior attaché I can’t get involved, not on my first posting.

I find a creek bed and follow its downward slope, picking my way over slick rocks. It doesn’t sound like anyone’s following me, no crackle of a walkie talkie or shouts for assistance. My side aches, my hands are scratched from thorns, but it looks like I’ve escaped. The hollow deepens, and I clamber up the bank of the creek, grasping onto tree roots for leverage. All around there’s a tangle of vines, so I keep my head down to focus on where next to place my weight. Cold seeps in through my light jacket, and I yank the zipper up to my throat. My fingers and toes are numb.

I’m not sure where I’m going. I try to keep the moon over my right shoulder, but some patchy clouds slide across it. I force myself not to panic, to keep my bearings on a straight line. They’ll trace the car back to the hotel, but that’s my only chance. If I can get there first, maybe I can grab my stuff and get to the airport. I imagine sneaking through the kitchen, the hollering and banging of pots, up the back stairs to my room, past chambermaids catching a smoke. As the blue-and-white Polizia screeches up to the hotel entryway, my Uber glides safely away. I can envision the airport road shooting between concrete barriers, my hurrying through security with an official pass, surrendering to the jetway’s tunnel, eyes closed and arms spread wide, burrowing into the warm cocoon of my seat on the plane. Floating once more, bereft of gravity, far above the city and its harbor glowing like a fistful of scattered jewels.

Up ahead a light streaks through the trees like a comet. Could be headlights, a back road that leads to the hotel. I change course and aim for it. The going is easier now, the vines have given way to a grove of tall pines. My shoes sink into the soft needles.

There are more headlights strobing past. Closer I can hear tires hum on the pavement. I hang back on the shoulder and decide to try and flag down the next car, make up a story about engine trouble. In some sense, I smile to myself, that’s true.

A car rounds the curve and speeds toward me. I take a deep breath and hobble out into its path, waiving my arms to signal distress. The headlight brights blind me. At the last second the car swerves and sideswipes my left leg, knocking me down. I’m bleeding. My hand sweeps the pavement across prickly bits of glass. The car has stopped, its engine racing. Behind me in the darkness, I can hear the woozy siren of the Polizia approaching.