Dad's car was an old Dodge with manual transmission.

An old brown Dodge rolled to a stop beside us.

A few minutes later the details came back-it was a white Dodge, five years old, with the name of the church on the side.

I wanted to be anywhere but the back seat of that old Dodge plodding down the highway.

It was a Dodge, ten years old, built in Detroit.

There's also something redemptive in the way that he comes home every night, driving the same old Dodge that he's driven since high school.

Load up the old Dodge with camping gear, essential firearms, spare parts, a certain few books.

He bent down and slashed first one tire and then another on the girl's old Dodge.