Placing his crushed hat atop his head, he retrieved his box, spat another wad of blood onto the ground, and turned toward the open prairie. His feet crunched loudly as he limped away. I watched him, unsure whether to follow. Or if I even wanted to.
In my mind, I always pictured Frank's walk here a liitle like the Scarecrow's: stumbling and uneven but trying his hardest to be stoic.
