Trece
Ernesto folds himself into an awkward sitting position in front of a minivan. The hard wet asphalt presses against his wasted buttocks, though he’s oblivious to the discomfort. His knees stick up like doorknobs and make a crunching noise as he readjusts his legs. Resting the exposed bone of his elbow on one, he waits.
The cement parking block of the unoccupied space that holds his interest has a number painted on it. He found it easily in the open lot; all the numbers are in consecutive order. It doesn’t occur to Ernesto to check the adjacent carports, one of which has the same number as the one he’s seated near. As far as he’s concerned, he’s exactly where he needs to be.
The minivan hides him from view as does the Lincoln Continental parked across from him. If anyone happens to
