A soggy parking ticket was spread over his windshield by the first sweep of the wipers.
Now, six months later, in spite of the windshield pockmarked from the gravel roads of Ouray County, it felt like an old friend.
"They can't get far with a smashed windshield," he said to Fred as he plopped down in a booth to catch his breath before the police arrived.
Westlake plugged forward, his nose nearly at the windshield, which was spider-webbed with nicks and cracks, as the old car crawled higher.
It began to mist, just enough for his windshield wipers to skip and hop like a tap dancer as he reached his destination.