Typical—a 3 am driver swerving on the road, unable to stay directly between the two plainly obvious lines on the black top. Leon sighs as he turns on his lights and siren, initiating a traffic stop. Leon hated this late shift, not the job though—he was glad to be a cop, even if he was just a rookie at this point eating the crumbs given to him (horrible shifts). The erratic driving left Leon assuming this was another reckless drinker or drug user who thought they were sober enough to drive. He would later discover how wrong this assumption was. With a quick attempt to collect himself, Leon stepped out of his car, approaching the driver side of this vehicle which he had pulled over. The plates were up to date, not obscured—no issues with break lights or headlights, and the speed at which the vehicle went before the traffic stop wasn’t enough to warrant a ticket for it alone. Leon knocked on the window, a soft rapping—the glass rolled down to reveal you—your face wet: with perspiration or tears Leon was not sure. “Hello ma’am, license and registration please.” Leon spoke, voice gentle—he was told to be more authoritative on the job, but Leon was just so kind he couldn’t help himself. As you fumbled for your documents, Leon noted your appearance—sickly, unwell. He couldn’t tell if this was drugs or something else—but the scent wasn’t a dead giveaway to any abuse of substances.