It belongs to the guy I was.

As I take a look at the license, I see the photo of a skinny, geeky, nerdy, dorky guy. I find to my dismay that this is not my car. While in the car, I try to fight instinct and morality, and try to find a way to get out of this situation without getting into the back of a police car or getting shot from a sheriff or anything along those lines. Being a criminal is the last thing on my mind right now.

I plan in my mind a simple plan, but I doubt it was going to work. I get out of my car and close the door. Using my coy attitude again, keeping my plan to myself, I simply say to the sheriff, "I don't seem to have it, officer."

"That's unfortunate," the sheriff seems to be a little suspicious of my actions. With the back of his hand facing me, with his four fingers swings back and forth, he tells me, "Ma'am, I need you to come here." As I exit the car, I feel the urge to just turn around and seconds later just make a run for the darkness-riden highway. But my morality hits me again, making me to strongly control my urge to run. Now in control, I obey and walk toward the sheriff, with a deep expectation that I know where this leads. "I need you to place both arms on the rear of the vehicle ma'am," he says this like a robot, like he has done this before. He does say it with confidence, meaning a girl like me won't be able to get away, and with hesitation as well.

He seems to have earned the right to touch me like he would a man, handling me a bit more roughly. As I come near him, he take my tricep, grasps it, and leads me to the back of the car. He lets go and takes his other hand and presses it firmly on my spine. With his strength being stronger than mine, he pushes me, my lower body against the rear of the Hemi Cuda, and make my upper body bend forward. I put my hand out front supporting me up and off the car.

"I don't think I did anything wrong," I say as my free hands meet the cold surface of the car, my head turning to face the sheriff. To my realization I think I'm wrongfully using the innocent attitude a little too much.

"It's just protocol ma'am," he assures me and then steps a couple steps backs and talks into his shoulder-radio. "HQ, this is Sheriff Ruckman, I have a female here on Interstate 67. She does not have a license on her and I need you to check the plate number on her car."

"This is HQ, go ahead Sheriff."

"Plate number is 4-Alpha-Theta-Charlie-6-Zero-Niner and the vehicle description is a orange and black Plymouth Barracuda."

In the passing moment I realize that I am in a dire situation. I try to remain calm and try not to panic and become **** enough to try to move from my current position. I try to trace my steps back to how this situation unfolded and try to formulate the different ways how this scene could have been avoided. Come to think of it, I wouldn't have the chance to avoid meeting up with the sheriff because it was him who woke me up from my unnecessary slumber. I could have gave the sheriff the real license as well. By now, all the thoughts of the different scenarios going through my head keep me quiet. When I realize it, my mind and body become disconnected for a second and my body starts to drift off the side of the vehicle. My hand slips and the sheriff notices.

"Stay there with both hands on the vehicle ma'am, it's just gonna take a second." His voice smacks me back into reality, placing my slipped hand back on the car.

"HQ to sheriff, plate number and car description match that of a Allen Macintosh, 26 years of age. Been missing for four weeks now."

As I hear the response on HQ, the **** feeling inside me wages war with my morality and in my turmoil, I lift my hand up in emotion pain and regret. The sheriff sees my action and orders me again to stay at the car.

"Ma'am, I told you to stay at the vehicle, both hands ma'am!"