I crouched near a set of black tread marks on Route 4 in Goshen, a picturesque town about an hour and a half northwest of Manhattan. Ray Bellamy, the journeyman insurance investigator assigned to administer my field test, stood nearby. I have to pass. I just have to. I straightened up, fighting an inclination to shiver. It was in the low sixties, a perfect early autumn day, but I’d dressed like a lawyer heading to court, not an insurance investigator trainee. Old habits die hard. My suspension had fourteen months left to run. Ray was older than me by a

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