Eating a hamburger in your car is a ritual, with every bite, lettuce dislodges and falls in your lap and hides in the gap between the seat and center console. You do your best to squeeze out some ketchup without getting it on your shirt. But it’s nice to be there at the end of the day, under fluorescent bulbs as the last bit of light fades and a stray dog walks past in the distance. We sit there listening to music, eating, seeing others place orders at the window and hear ticket numbers called, downing soda held by crunchy ice.