Driver's Log 11/21/14 11:03PM EST: I pull to the gate of a northern Baltimore fenced community. There is an awkward silence while I search my App for the credentials necessary to gain entrance. The gate rises, and I discover I am just one car in a caravan. I queue up behind a line of utilitarian silver Prius', the goto vehicle for this sort of expedition.

The fare emerges from the pick up location, about a dozen young women outfitted for a night on the town. They shuffle awkwardly toward our line like a flock of egrets, their feet contorted to extend directly toward the earth by six inch platform heels. Each wares nothing but a short, shear dress; naked white legs, no jackets. They hug themselves and shiver. My car reports that the outside temperature is 36 degrees, a cartoon snowflake dancing across the media console as illustration. I preemptively up the thermostat and switch on the heated leather seats. Once inside, the passengers frantically rub their bare shoulders, "So warm, so warm!"

The convoy works it's way through the dark treelined streets. One of the women in the back remarks on how creepy the Notre Dame cathedral is, then they discuss their day:

"I took it before the exam, but I don't think it kicked in until afterward", the first says.

"I think it takes, like, an hour to kick in." the second says.

My mind begins to tick off the types of "it" you would take before an exam, that require a full hour to kick in. It's a short list, but I don't have to conjecture for long.

"I love Vyvance", the second says.

"Yeah, def" says the first.

"It makes me so happy! I swear it's just the best thing for you. It's so good for you!" says the second.

"Yeah except when you take too much and get jittery, I took too many the other day", the first counters.

"But you're ok once the jitters ware off, you're ok!", says the second.

"Yeah!" exclaims the first.

I consider mentioning that taking Vyvance too often leads to going crazy and hitting people, but my inner Proper-British-Butler stops me. It would be above my station as their driver to comment on their amphetamine use.

I toe the accelerator as we merge onto the highway. The gasoline engine of the Volkswagen roars to life, propelling it in front of the line of hybrid-electrics. The Prius' take flanking positions and we fly south to Federal Hill in a loose V formation, like a flock of wintering geese. As we pull three abreast to a red light on Light St. the young women roll down their windows and squeal salutations to their friends in the other cars, Z 104.3 dance music mingling from sound system to sound system.

Finally the caravan deposits it's passengers onto Cross St, in front of a BCPD patrol cruiser. Its blue and read LED lights pulse gently in sentry mode, inadvertently lending a festive atmosphere to the street teaming with young people waiting in line or smoking outside of the venues. The young women ascend their difficult footwear and brace themselves for the cold. As soon as they have departed, the GPS buzzes with incoming fares and the flock of drivers scatter into the narrow side streets, each with a new assignment.