In the middle of the intersection, Chief spun the steering wheel to the left, nearly side-swiping an Oldsmobile coming from the opposite direction. As Chief straightened out the car, he checked the mirror again. 

The black car had screamed through the intersection too and had spun left, but a big white truck had blocked its way. The truck blared its horn. They were on a collision course.

At the last second, the truck swerved to the right, narrowly avoiding T-boning. The black car fishtailed and regained control, but the white truck careened sideways, riding on two wheels, then it tipped over and slid across the road and slammed against the sidewalk . . spilling white powdered donuts all over the intersection. 

The truck driver popped his head out the door, which now faced the sky—again, and bellowed, loud enough for Chief to hear through Joe’s open window, “You gotta be kidding me! I don’t belief of this! It’s a second time today!” 

The black car was still tailing them, and now Chief had no idea what street they were on or where they were heading. He needed to figure something out quick—he needed the map. 

“Joe, grab me the—” 

Joe had his hands up in the air and was yelling at the top of his lungs like was on a roller coaster and having the time of his life. 

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