There is no handle on the inside of the door in the cargo area of a hearse, as the usual occupants are in no condition to need one, and he was in a panic, as he was not only alone in the basement, he was also the only one in the entire funeral home; it was after normal business hours, and he was responsible for answering the phone if a death call came in.
Beads of sweat began popping out on his forehead, and he wondered how in the HELL he was going to get himself out of this predicament when he saw that the sliding window separating the front seat from the cargo area was slightly ajar. He worked the window open as far as it would go.
He was not a small man, but he was a desperate man. He worked and maneuvered and squeezed until he was finally delivered into the front seat of the hearse, dripping with sweat and panting, but free.
Linking up with Ivy at Uncharted for Six Sentence Stories with the prompt "trunk."