For hours from Missoula to Calgary, Jake didn’t drive straight. He zoomed past those empty cop cars that are meant to scare you into compliance. He liked that you couldn’t know they were empty until you passed them, but you could know you were a black boy, crying, laughing, speeding.

Charlinda Banks is an emerging writer currently living in Boston, MA. She mainly writes about family, gender, sensuality, and ghosts through poetry, fiction, and creative essays. When Charlinda isn’t writing she is working in the nonprofit arts, reading, or lighting a candle.