Frost crept gently across the windows, a spider’s web of flicks and flecks, the fog wept on the glass. The two sped along in the pickup truck of a now dead man. His ghost, if he had one, wasn’t haunting them tonight.

The accelerator hated him, Walter knew it. With each twinge of pressure it screamed at him, “Thief! Scum! Filth!” He pressed harder, the needle hop scotching by fives and tens over the speedometer. The engine snarled in delight, unaware of its new master, its belly billowed and swelled as it guzzled its gasoline in hedonistic delight. It, at least, was alive.

One, two, three, four. Like clockwork James tapped his knees, his peripheral silhouette fading into the cadence of the fog, his rhythm and meter harmonizing with the clicks and clacks of the road. He didn’t speak, he hardly breathed. Five, six, seven, eight.

The rain, it came from out of the fog, a few drops at first. Their clangs on the hood of the car came as taps, a rapping on Walter's shoulder, a reminder to him that they had nothing but the thin sheet of metal above them to shield them from the storm. Street signs passed in and out of a still picture on the dashboard, yellow and blue flickers in the dark were all that changed.

A song played in Walter’s head.