Chapter 3

The orange had left Frank’s open hand and now lay in the dirt beside him. The little ant crawled upon it, pausing to look at Frank as if ready to be shooed, or asking, perchance, if Frank was near death. Frank wondered himself. He could not move, not any part of his body, nor could he feel the rain or the hard ground beneath him. He had no voice to call out for help, because it, like his sense of touch, had left him too.

What good would it have done to scream out, anyway? What difference would it have made? No one was there. No one would come. Frank was alone—like always. If the end was imminent, would that be so bad?Chapter 1

Nearly one year later…