Sid knows the equations well.

Booze plus mouth equals stupid. Stupid plus car equals going too fast for the shitty engine to handle.

Put that mess on Interstate 35, the main north-south route in eastern Minnesota. What do you have? A drunk, stupid fugitive in a piece-of-shit stolen car broke down at a rest stop off Interstate 35 south of Duluth.

So why did Sid start his morning with booze? It only served to solve the algebra of the day in the worst way possible.

"You stupid, stupid, stupid fuck," Sid says to himself.

His fingers wrap tight around the steering wheel. He squeezes until his knuckles turn translucent.

The car is parked where it died. The right side is triple parked by the rest stop building. The rest hangs out into the lot. The place is empty except for Sid.

And a single highway patrol car. It pulls up behind him. No lights. No sirens.

Two uniformed officers get out. One man. One woman.

The man carries a stack of hazard cones. He places them at the rest stop entrance. That way no one from the interstate will drive up.

"Shit, shit, shit," Sid says. Watches in the rear view mirror. Checks the locks.

He bites a nail until it bleeds. Reminds him of the cut on his arm. Mugged in north Minneapolis earlier that day. Fucker took his gun.

The female officer waits until the cones are placed. Heads toward Sid. Then the male officer does something odd.

He gets back into the squad car.

Sid thinks how he should've gone with a different equation that day. When sticking up a bank, do it alone. The money is only split one way.

He had trouble with the splitting part after the heist. Couldn't do the math to divide the haul by three. So he simplified things. Cut down the split to just one person. Math doesn't have to be hard.

Sid rips at another fingernail. Blood runs down onto his palm. He discovers it after wiping sweat from his forehead. It smears red on his face like Maybelline grease.

He sucks his finger clean. The female officer is here.

A gloved hand knocks on the window. Sid rolls it down.

"Having car trouble?" the female officer says.

She leans her face close to his. Breathes in deep. Like she's scenting him.

Sid talks out of the side of his mouth. Tries to keep the booze on his breath from leaking out.

"Yup. Car died," he says.

"Why are you talking like that?" the female officer says.

"Like what?" Sid says.

"Like you're trying not to open your mouth," she says.

Sid shifts in his seat. Checks the mirrors. Why is that other officer still in the squad car? Don't they usually get out in pairs?

"That's just how I talk," he says.

"Don't lie to me. I can smell it on you," she says.

Sid stares at her. Which F comes after fight and flight if neither is an option? Freeze? Fib?

"I have a disability," Sid says.

A quick smile punches through the corner of the officer's mouth. She stuffs in back down.

"OK. Is your disability that you're drunk?" she says.

Sid relaxes his mouth and lets out a breath. No use in hiding it. At least he can breathe again.

He checks the mirrors. That male officer in the squad car isn't even paying attention.

"Do you want my driver's license?" Sid says.

"Sure. I'll return it to whomever you stole it from," the officer says.

The comment throws Sid off. He's never met an officer like this before.

He flips the license to her. She slips it into her pocket without checking the photo.

"You're not going to look at it?" Sid says.

"No. I know who you are," the officer says.

Sid chews a fresh fingernail. Shreds it until he tastes blood. Wonders why the male officer in the car appears to be reading a newspaper. What the hell is going on?

*** PLEASE SUPPORT MY WRITING! ***

This story will only be posted on Wattpad for a limited time. If you'd like the full version, head to your favorite online e-book/book retailer and pick up your own digital/print copy. Search for "Invisible Hand Sobieck." Or leave a review of the book on Amazon once you're finished reading on Wattpad. Thank you. ~Ben