Only Son by Kevin O'Brien

his rearview mirror for police cars. More than anything, he wanted to have the baby in their new home. Then he’d feel safe. But Seattle was three hours away.
    What had he left behind in the apartment? Not much. If there was anything, he had a whole month to go back and get it.
    At the traffic light just before the expressway on-ramp, he hoisted up the baby and buckled in the infant seat. All the while, the kid kept screaming. The light changed and Carl drove on.
    â€œLEAVING OREGON,” said the sign on the bridge. Somehow, it made Carl feel better—they’d made it across the state line. He kept waiting for the baby to fall asleep. But the kid wouldn’t stop crying. His feet kicked at the car seat—as if protesting what was happening to him. Carl reached over and patted his head. The baby seemed to recoil and shrieked louder.
    Carl saw another sign, posted along Interstate 5: “SEATTLE—123 MILES.” It was still too far. He sped down the left lane, not certain he could take another two hours of this. Maybe there was something on the news already, a bulletin. Carl switched on the radio. But he could barely hear it over the incessant screams. He fiddled with the selector buttons and glanced at the rearview mirror. Jesus, a police car .
    He’d already passed it, parked along the highway’s shoulder. Instinctively, he tapped the brake. He could only think that they’d already gotten a description of him, the car, the baby…
    He checked the rearview mirror again. Please, stay there, don’t move . But the squad car pulled onto the highway.
    The baby’s cries seemed to get worse. There was no way to quiet him down—or hide him.
    The cop car veered into the left lane and sped up behind him. The red strobe went on. “Oh, shit,” Carl whispered.
    He felt his stomach turn. For a crazy moment, he pressed harder on the accelerator. But then he signaled and steered to the side of the highway. He clung to a tiny grain of hope that the cop had pulled him over for speeding. The patrol car parked behind him. Carl turned off the engine, then gazed at the baby. With a shaky hand, he reached over and gently rocked his infant seat. He hadn’t even gotten him home yet, hadn’t even held him in his arms.
    The tapping started on the window.
    Carl turned and saw the pudgy, blond-haired cop—a little older than him, maybe forty. He hadn’t drawn a gun, but he looked as if he were about to read him his rights.
    Carl rolled down the window. He couldn’t look the cop in the eyes, so he focused on his badge instead. If his nervousness didn’t give him away, the infant’s angry cries would.
    â€œIn quite a hurry,” the policeman remarked.
    Carl said nothing.
    â€œCan I see your license, please?”
    His hands still trembling, Carl pulled out his wallet, then gave him the driver’s license. Across from him on the passenger side, the baby screamed and tugged at the infant seat’s cushioned bar like a prisoner wanting to be freed.
    The cop studied Carl’s license. “I clocked you going at sixty-four, Mr. Jorgenson.”
    He doesn’t know , Carl thought.
    â€œWere you aware that you were going so fast?” the cop asked, having to shout over the baby’s crying.
    â€œI’m sorry,” Carl said. He tried to laugh. “Um, somebody needs a nap. Guess I was in a hurry to get him home and in bed.”
    The policeman frowned a little. “This your correct address?” he asked, squinting at the license again.
    â€œYes—”
    â€œWell, if you’re headed home, you’re going the wrong way. Says here you live in—”
    â€œYes, I’m sorry,” Carl said. “Actually, I—I just moved to Portland—I mean, Seattle. We just moved to Seattle a week ago.”
    The cop’s eyes narrowed at him—then at the baby, but it was only for a moment. He walked around to the front of