She kept her voice level. "Similar or identical?"
"Similar."
"Then I'd encourage you to run my plate. The registration will confirm ownership."
He looked at her for a moment, then he walked back to his cruiser without another word.
She waited. Behind her, across the railyard fence, something metal shifted in the wind. The road remained empty in both directions. She watched her mirrors and kept her hands on the bars and did not look back at the cruiser, because she had learned that looking back was often interpreted as anxious, and she was not anxious. She was patient. She had spent twenty years learning the difference.
Three minutes passed. Then four.
The officer came back. He stopped in front of her rather than beside her, which forced her to look up at him—a small positioning choice, deliberate.
"Plate comes back clean," he said. "No stolen vehicle report matching your registration."
"Good," she said. "Then we're finished."
He did not step back. "I need to take a look at the bike."
The air between them changed.