He finds that all of my documents are in order, returns them to me, and then yells into the walkie-talkie, “You’d never believe who I just stopped!” Then it doesn’t matter how old or how senior the officer is, it’s the same story: “Do you know how long we chased you? Do you know what problems you caused us?” In my head, I’m like, you’re 23. You weren’t even alive then. I wouldn’t dare say that out loud, out of respect. Then—as always—they ask to take a selfie. It’s fair to say that until my last day on Earth, they’ll recognize me. Nothing I can do about it. I use my fame to talk to at-risk kids, and they listen to me. I tell them the story of my life. I’ve done this almost twice a week for about 20 years now. Maybe I’ve had an influence on one of them. That’s my reward.