Battleship Impala

The vinyl is peeled off the roof of the car like old paint, furled and flapping in the wind. Flattened tires sit in mounds of vibrant green moss, which has crept along shallow treads. The maroon paint has become weary pink from sitting in the sun. I hitch my bag on my shoulder, noting the leaves caught in the wiper blades. All but one window is fogged. I step to it, and can see into the surprisingly debris-free interior. A furry gray head the size of a melon appears in the open window, accompanied by a howl of warning. Yellow eyes pin me with completely unwarranted loathing. I grin and start to say, "Awe, hi there-" when the cat lurches. I drop pretense and run.