Here we are in some rest area. That’s the Volkswagen of some guy who glued a thousand little toys all over his car. Toy soldiers. Plastic dinosaurs. Tiny elephants. We stood there and called out all our favorites. Mostly it looked like the kind of stuff you find in cereal boxes. I was pointing to a Chewbacca on the hood when the guy came out of the forest, dusting dirt off his pants. He had long stringy gray hair and looked about seventy years old. He bustled past us without saying a word. Slammed the door and leaned on the horn until I got the message. It made a weak sound like he’d worn it out all across America. We watched him pull out of the parking lot, leaning on the horn again when a family hauling a picnic basket converged on him.
    "Maybe it’s not his car," my brother said.