Harlan opened the car door and tossed another canvas in the back. The fastfood garbage that fell out didn’t bother him; it wasn’t his problem any more. One tube of paint fell with it, though, and he picked that up and threw it in before slamming the door shut.
He opened the front door. Fewer fast food bags fell out, and he kicked out the rest that had found their way to the driver’s side. He took a deep breath, then let it out in a big sigh.
Harlan turned the key just enough to get the radio going, then moved his hand through the pile to his right. Finally he pulled out an old wrapper, the grease long since dried. He smoothed it out against the steering wheel, picked up his pencil, and started to draw.
He shut the radio off twenty minutes later, knowing the battery was borderline drained. He hoped it would start in the morning.
He checked that the door was locked, then pulled on the seat’s lever. It fell backward, the trash behind him crunching and crinkling.
Harlan pulled his blanket over himself and curled up for another night’s sleep.