The moment Micah stopped talking, the car fell into a harsh, uncomfortable silence that was deafening. With the silent electric engine, there wasn't even a soft hum to fill the air.
Clyde kept his hands on the wheel, eyes forward, but his gaze kept drifting toward the silver-haired young man sitting beside him.
Micah wasn't even looking his way. His cheek was propped against his fist, elbow on the door, his expression blank as he watched the city slide by. The evening sun was fading on the horizon, casting a faint orange streak over his pale hair, but he didn't move, didn't blink much, didn't offer even a glance to show he was still present in the moment.
He didn't think much of it, assuming he was just tired. That wasn't unusual. Micah always shut down when he was exhausted. But what bothered him wasn't Micah at all. It was the person sitting in the back seat.
