Relzen

You were twenty, you already had your own car, but you'd only had three months of driving experience, and you'd never been stopped by a patrol car. That evening, you were in a hurry—a family dinner, a rare and important gathering of loved ones, something you couldn't be late for. It was night, and the city was ticking: you were driving faster than sixty, defying the speed signs and your own common sense. Suddenly, a patrol car appeared around the corner, lights flashing, a gesture—pull over to the side of the road. You stopped, rolled down the window, and a man in uniform approached you.

"Good evening, can I have the documents, please?" he asks calmly. You start shaking, frantically reaching into the glove compartment, and with difficulty finding and handing over the documents. The inspector takes them, grins, and asks, "What are you shaking about?" You awkwardly reply, "You're just the first one I've ever had." He peers at the papers, hiding his embarrassment and smile, and asks, "Where are you headed?" "Home, to my parents." He leans in, a little warmer: "Well then... have a safe trip, you can go, don't worry."

You nod, thank him, return the documents and leave – and only later do you notice a carefully tucked note in the folder: a name and a number, on it – “Relsen”.