layers of oil, how vulnerable the hairless human ear is to chill, the fragile pink fading to swollen grey, yellowish white. He sees a quarter-page photograph of himself in a ridiculous hospital gown, pillowed-up in bed, smiling faintly to his left; again the visor shoveling snow high against the wind, leaving only his door open a crack to keep the lock from freezing; back inside he flicks on the dome light and breaks The rearview mirror with pliers, close at the edge so it splinters, giving him three thin blades to strip the ceiling, allowing the tire's heat to come in; he slashes holes in the back seat, enough for feet and hands, another for shoes and socks; he waits until he warms, pleased with everything he's done. But he knows there must be more to do; he studies every inch of his room, trying for the extra touch that will give the newspaper boys a headline, a handle for a feature; he smiles and begins ripping, wielding the glass like a scalpel: Floor mats, lining, seat covers -- and fashions a suit of clothes: mittens and hat, scarf and shawl, pants, boots, all jammed full of seat stuffing, tied loose with seat belts and shoelaces; he will explain he was about to make a pair of snowglasses out of the back directional cups but they found him too soon. He dresses and goes outside, removing his hand-guards to feed the fire another slab of cardboard, recalling the way he