The faithful old dog, shoved his greying muzzle across the seat and his pink steamy tongue gently teased the mans orange, nicotine stained, fingers as they rested on the gearshift. With no heating in the car, the warmth of the dogs tongue brought a refreshing newness of feeling to his whole hand. Their breath formed patterns of condensation as in itself it battled with the cold to stop its rivulets from becoming ice on the once clear windows of the car.
His lack of confidence in the accuracy of the fuel guage caused the hairs on the back of his wrinkled neck to stand on end as he knew the fuel level must be low. To run out of fuel in such a Godforsaken place would mean certain death unless, by coincidence, some other fool had sallied forth into the wilderness, against all advice.