“At last, as the gray November afternoon tightens down toward an early anvil-colored dusk, he bounds into the kitchen, snatches the Volare’s keys from the peg by the door, and almost runs toward the car.  He drives toward Portland fast, smiling, and he does not slow when the season’s first snow skirls into the beams of his headlights, dancers from the iron sky.”

— from Stephen King’s “Cycle of the Werewolf”