She kept looking over her shoulder toward the main road, as if she expected someone to turn into the lot.
“I have to drive around the block to find a place where the police do not ticket me,” she said.
“We can come with you,” I said, taking a step toward her passenger door.
“There is no room in the back seat, Sylvie,” she said, her voice rising.
She did not mention the cardboard boxes of papers and old blankets that had been piled back there since Tuesday.
“Just wait by the side of the building where the roof hangs over,” she added.
She opened her car door, and the yellow interior light showed the crumpled fast-food bags on the floor.
“Will you be quick?” I asked.
“I will be right back,” she said.
She got into the driver’s seat and pulled the heavy door shut with a dull, metallic clang.
I stood by the wet brick wall of the restaurant and watched the red taillights of her sedan flare.
