I’d like to think that sometimes Trevor would have a Polaroid camera with him during the old days. One he probably would have stolen from some old, seedy thrift store.
Michael would sometimes chuckle at the sight of seeing Trevor carrying around the camera, taking photos here and there amongst the endless stops the two of them would set foot on along the way. He never minded, but he hated having his photo taken. Lester despised it. He thought it was a terrible idea to even think of leaving behind any evidence, to which Trevor would simply just glare at him and flip him off.
The photos were pointless, for the most part. Trevor would just take photos of things he found intriguing - as intriguing as miles and miles of motels, snow and strip joints could be.
Sometimes it was gas stations. Sometimes it was an old beat-up car. Sometimes it was city signs on the road.
Sometimes it was Michael.
