At the intersection of Green Road and Terrance, her uncle pointed.
"You see that up there?"
He pointed to a camera box above the traffic light.
"They've got cameras that take photos. See the flash?" She nodded.
"Be very careful when you're driving, especially right here," he said. "We both of us got ticketed. Your aunt got one too."
"For crossing the red?"
"No, for stopping ahead of the line here," he said, looking down at the road ahead of the car. "They call it a rolling stop. Make sure you don't do that. Stop at least ten to twenty feet before the light."
"They're looking to nab you."
At the corner, a small white chapel off the main road had a flashing sing, "Jesus Loves You." It had a steeple and a gravel lot large enough for about five cars and it reminded you of small towns and prairies and settlers gathering for Sunday worship.
Just next to the chapel was the Diner, where she'd ordered a tuna fish sandwich once and was disappointed because they'd added relish to the mixture, making it sweet. In those days, when the children were small, she'd lived by her husband's tenets and a low level anxiety plagued her like a shadow. She'd listen to him like the gospel truth. She'd let him parse out the meanings of things, and food was a great comfort.