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So he let it go, glancing out the window at the shafts of light through the trees, thinking about Los Alamos. Everything was secure, so nothing was noticed. Then Los Alamos faded away too, left behind in a rush of miles and the bright, sharp air. They were heading west, where the day, even the landscape, was new.

They drove for a long time without talking, as comfortable with the silence as an old couple, and then he sensed the gradual beginning of the descent. The dips seemed longer now, the road twisting to skirt the uneven hills. The speed they’d kept on the high ridge began to seem faster, hurtling them toward curves so that Emma was forced to brake to check the pull of gravity down the other slope. They raced up the sides of hills, unable to see over the top, pausing carefully before the downward plunge. The views were closed in, a series of hollows and bends. It reminded him of mountain roads in the East, up and down waves of hills.

When they reached Jemez Springs, a cluster of buildings stretched a few blocks along the road, they had already slowed to thirty, so he was startled to hear the short whoop of a siren behind them. A police car, its roof light now shining in the morning sun, had slid out of its hiding place to follow them, motioning the car over to the side. “Oh God,” Emma said, pulling to the curb in front of a white clapboard hotel with the wide rocking-chair porch of an old Adirondack resort. The policeman, in full uniform, took his time getting out of the car. On this sleepy street in a notch of mountains, there was never a reason to hurry.

“Ma’am,” he said in a cowboy drawl, “we got a twenty-mile speed limit in this town. It’s clearly posted. Can I see your license?”

Connolly could see Emma about to rise to the bait, could already hear her sharp answer, but her shoulders shrank in resignation and wordlessly she handed the cop her wallet.

“Oh, another one of these,” he said, glancing at the anonymous project license. “Well, I reckon we can write a ticket to a number just as well as a name.” He pulled out his ticket pad. “You from up that ranch school, huh? Funny thing, all you people with no names. Enough to make a person wonder. But that’s wartime-that’s what they tell me, anyways. You ought to slow down, though. Live longer.” Connolly recognized the tone, the mix of folksiness and swagger, as familiar as a blue uniform.

“How much is it?” Emma said.

“Ten dollars.”

“You’re joking.”

He looked at her sharply. “Well, no, ma’am. We don’t consider putting our children at risk a laughing matter.” The road was deserted.

“But ten dollars,” she repeated, injustice rising in her voice.

He smiled. “Well, you can mail it in. Lots of folks like to do that. Be sure you do, though. We’ll yank that license sure as shooting, name or no name.” He handed her the ticket, bending down to peer into the car. “You ought to get your wife here to slow down. Buy her a new dress. Cost you less in the long run.”

“I’ll do that,” he said, automatically polite. He was struck by the smooth assumption of it. How easy it was to become someone else. The policeman would probably swear to it.

“Bloody thieves,” she said after the cop had left. Connolly smiled. “It’s what we call a speed trap. It’s how they make their living.”

She had begun driving out of town with exaggerated slowness, creeping along the street.

“That’s one word for it.”

“Anyway, now we’ve been arrested together. You said this would be an adventure.” He noticed that she was trembling, clutching the wheel to hold herself steady. “You all right?”

“It just gave me a turn, that’s all. I must be mad to do this. I run off with a man and I’ve got the police onto me before I’m even down the mountain.”

He laughed.

“I suppose it is funny. But it’s not. The police. What if-?”

“Do you want me to drive?”

“It’s not the driving.”

“What, then?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I don’t like being married off so fast. Maybe I’m not very good at this.”

“Don’t worry. I’m not going to buy you a dress.”

She smiled. “No, you wouldn’t.” She drove quietly for a minute. “I just don’t want anybody to get hurt,” she said softly.

“Nobody’s going to get hurt.”

“Yes they are,” she said, her voice distant. “We’re all going to get hurt.”

He waited, afraid now of easy reassurance. “Does it make any difference?” he said finally.

She didn’t answer, then slowly shook her head. “No. That’s what’s so awful. It doesn’t make any difference.” She shifted. “Oh, to hell with it,” she said suddenly, stepping on the gas. The car shot forward. “You never get two tickets in one day, do you? We might as well do as we like.”