He scrunched up his face, squinting like Franis did—that was the guy he’d gotten the hat off of. A fellow Wayne’s height and age, but more weathered. By time, by smokes, by the things he’d done. Wayne already wore a wig to change his hair color, along with a bit of rubber on his chin to square it out, and some makeup to sink his eyes. With the hat, he was Franis—missing only one thing. He climbed out and swaggered. Franis sure knew how to swagger.
