A package was abandoned sometime during the day. Atop the roofs the four of us run at nighttime, there it appeared. With soggy cardboard sides and flecks of green mold adorning the strange thing, it gave each of us pause.

Raphael spoke first, "what do ya thinks init?" Donnie followed that with Donnie-logic: "maybe we should just leave it alone. It's obviously antiquated-see, it looks as though it's been here for some time. It's not even for us–look, there's no addressee." I track Don's gestures (they're apprehensive) in my way, silent and observing, as I stand opposite my brothers. I ponder quietly on which directive is the best one to take.

On one hand, yes, I'm curious, but on the other, well, it all seems a bit too odd. The whole idea of it, this strange brown box, is perplexing. I mean, every single night we start our patrolling on this roof, scaling up this side, landing on this spot. It cannot be a mere coincidence that this square, smelly object was left right here. I don't believe in coincidence.

"I say we open the box." Mikey. Of course Mikey would want to dive right in–do not pass go, do not collect $200.

I glance over my shoulder towards our youngest brother and smile in response, reassuring him while simultaneously reassuring myself.

But as the group's leader, I know it's come time to make a decision. "I think Mikey is right. While this all feels a bit...weird, I think it'd be best if we just popped open the lid and see what's underneath. Then we can move on with our rounds, once we know no one is in danger."

I catch a nod from Raph and then movement indicating he's chosen himself to have first grab. There's a thin layer of duct tape wrapped around the top half of it, but it doesn't look as though there's much fight remaining within the sticky material. Before anything though, I hold a hand up to stop my red-clad brother and: "no, I'm gonna take point on this one, Raph," I say, kneeling down and grasping a folded-up silver corner.

I pull back on the strip of tape and swing the two flaps of cardboard wide open.

†††

There's a scream, a cry for help and I recognize the voice. It's piercing and desperate – it holds an echo of life, one moments away from falling over a precipice no one is capable of returning from.

You see, I never heard the ticks, never glimpsed the subtracting numbers. Never felt the concussive blast, nor the heat that radiated up almost instantaneously. Parts of my flesh burned away and some of my bones were bleached white by the ravaging hunger of fire; I had just enough focus to understand the inevitability of my situation though, dire as it may have been.

I never had a chance. I knew that. In some semi-conscious state, caught between mortality and what comes next, I fumbled with this truth amidst the dark. Yet even now, I sought the one thing of import, the last and only purpose that ever truly mattered to me.

I wanted to know they–the three of them–were alright. I couldn't leave without knowing. Such a thing would kill me before any blast ever could.

Suddenly that scream arrives again, and I realize it's Raphael. I can't see him, can hardly even hear him, but at least he's capable of making sound. That means he's alive, yes? One down, two to go.

Then Donnie's voice booms throughout the expanding abyss that's calling out to me; he's stuttering: "put pressure here, hold that, grab his hand, talk to him Mikey, talk to him, make him hear you, don't go Leo, please God, you gotta hang on, I'll get you through this...I'll get yo-"

I feel myself slipping away, but there's no pain and there's no regrets in this next place. I heard Raphael, Donatello and Michelangelo's voices and I know they've survived.

I'm glad it was me.