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Mad adventures start the same way tame ones do, except for the preparation. At 11:08 on a non-sleeping night, I tossed my jacket in the car, saddled my fully caffeinated coke into the dashboard cup holder, and jumped into my old gray Toyota so I could roll down the highway. The music blared, and my fingers tapped. I crooned a range of contralto to soprano with full-voiced daring, the window down, my hair blowing into the summer night. I made good time driving with my brother 85-90 mph on the deserted road heading up to Chico. If I kept my foot low and my gas tank full, I’d reach my sister dorm before she rose up for breakfast. Feeling full of the joy that comes from doing something daring, I guess I let that foot hug the ground a little too much. The black and white, hiding behind a low billboard, got me good. “Got a fire to go to, lady?” he said, drawling like a Texan. I could have handled a ticket, but finding out that the backseat held only a broken umbrella, an old manila file folder, and a feather duster I’d used as a prop in a recent school skit, did me in. “So this missing purse has the wallet with your driver’s license?” the gum-chewing cop asked, as he unbuckled his handcuffs. Later that morning, my sister picked me up at the Chico County jail; the good news is that at least she was talking to me again.