The low thrum of the tires on pavement had lulled Michelangelo to sleep several hours ago. His head was pillowed on his arm, shoulder wedged into the space between the seat back and the door. His breathing was soft and deep, a rhythmic addition to the humming road.
Raphael arched his back in the driver's seat, bracing the steering wheel with his knees and stretching his hands behind his head. Fatigue was heavy on his eyelids so he rolled down the window, allowing the cool autumn wind to bite at his cheeks. He and Mike had driven Splinter out to the farm for what their father called "a sabbatical", which Raphael muttered meant he wanted a vacation from Michelangelo. The way Raphael looked at it, it was an excuse for him to get out of the lair and into the open air for the first time in months.
The AM hiss of the radio buzzed in his ears and he reached to turn it up, just enough to hear the voices but not enough to wake Mike. The sky in front of Raphael was spread out like a banquet of stars; the silver ribbon of road wound away into the darkness. His headlights picked out a path, sending shadows galloping into the trees.
He retrieved a cup of coffee from between his thighs and took a long, slow draw, swirling the hot bitterness around his back molars. The silky voice of Art Bell whispered in his ears and Raphael couldn't stop a wry smile. The conspiracy theory radio show was his secret pleasure during long nights when he couldn't sleep, kept awake by memories that he couldn't kill. He couldn't stop a smile when he heard the piano theme rising through the spitting static.
Far off on the horizon a mammoth thunderhead pulsed with a flash of lightning, then another. Raphael pressed the accelerator a little more heavily, feeling the car leap forward at his command. He raced toward the storm, feeling the grip of the tires on the road, the rush of the wind sliding over the car in a slipstream. He hung his arm out the window, allowing his hand to ride the wind like a bird.
The voices on the radio hissed in and out, fluttering into his ears but not lodging there. The road was all, the throatiness of the engine, the rush of rubber on asphalt, the shriek of wind over metal. Ahead the lighting flashed again, and a low grumble of thunder vibrated in Raphael's chest. He dropped his toe to the floor and watched the speedometer leap in response, felt the vehicle lunge forward, speeding toward the strobing clouds.
Beside him, Michelangelo stirred with a little grumble but did not wake. Raphael eased his foot from the accelerator and popped the gearshift into neutral, and the car slowed, coasting silently along. As the car rolled to a stop, tires crunching on the asphalt, Raphael's sharp ears caught the soft and rhythmic symphony of crickets in the trees, accompanied by the rustle of leaves in the wind. A roll of thunder, almost gentle in its drawn-out call, shuddered through the air and Raphael felt that it was urging him on, calling him to the storm.
Mike rolled his head against the headrest and blinked his eyes open sleepily. "Why're we stopped?" he mumbled, passing the back of one hand over his mouth.
Raphael stared out the windshield, entranced by the lightning. "There's a storm coming."
