“The second page identifies the vehicle by VIN,” he said.

“That’s the page that holds up.”

The arms rose.

The car hung six inches above the pavers with its nose tipped up.

The front door flew open so hard it bounced off the wall.

Trent came down the steps in gray pajama pants with no shirt, barefoot on the cold concrete, yelling at the driver to put it down.

The driver looked at his clipboard and didn’t answer.

“That’s my car,” Trent said.