On the other side of the Impala, a beat-up blue sedan was parked with its windows down, but the driver stayed inside. He had reclined the seat a little so his foot could be propped on the dashboard, and his left arm dangled out of the window. The acrid scent of marijuana drifted on the breeze. Brian hadn’t turned on his movie speaker. Instead, he was listening to a cassette recording of The Clash’s album London Calling.

He looked over at the Impala when he heard the hiss of a cap. Man, he would kill for a beer. Actually, he would kill for a bottle of glue to sniff, if it took the edge off his gloomy state. Brian tipped a box of candy into his mouth. His passenger seat looked like he suffered from some kind of binge disorder: an empty hot dog carton, a wad of napkins, a half-eaten basket of French fries, an unopened container of jujubes.