He let down the hood, climbed in, slid into the driver's seat, and went through the operation of starting.

Only, he didn't start.

The self-starter hummed as it spun the flywheel, but nothing whatever was elicited save a profane phrase from Foster and a growl from Mert.

Bud sat back flaccid, his whole body owning defeat.
"Well, that means a tow in to the nearest shop," he stated, after a minute of dismal silence.

"She's dead as a doornail." Mert sat back in his corner of the seat, muttering into his collar.
Foster looked at him, looked at Bud, looked at the car and at the surrounding hills.