it and unhooks the gas filter cup; he carries it off, chuckling, pleased, stumbling ahead to the dashboard where he shoves in the lighter and waits for it to pop. He pours the fuel on some crumpled paper and pokes the orange-coiled lighter at the center of the tire, pulling back at the whoosh of flame; he controls the fire: large enough to warm the inside of the car, small enough to conserve the burnables he has piled on the front seat: glove compartment maps, credit card tissues, six or seven old lists, a driver's manual, last night's newspaper, and two man-sized Kleenex he stuffed in his pocket at home this morning. Already proud, his lips twitch as he realizes there are yards of cardboard lining any car's insides; he thinks of the look his insurance man will have on his straight-lipped face when he sees the car in the morning, destroyed for salvation; the papers will surely do a story, pictures, quotes. He dismantles both headlights, leaving their wires attached, and props them in the snow, aimed skyward, and gets back in the driver's seat flicking them on: high low off on, a perfect signalling system for any snowmobilers, roaring drunk through virgin drifts laced with fence posts and abandoned jalopies; He knows the papers will set his next move in bold type; off comes the oil filter, on goes the lubricant: face, hands, back of neck, deep into both ears, explaining aloud to tomorrow's reporters the need for