CHAPTER TEN
He used his father's old gig to spear the frog just before it tried to leap away from him. He held the gig up for a moment, watching the toad flail and kick its back legs. Its eerie little eyes looked around frantically and then, like its legs, it went still.
He smiled. Dinner was served, and he'd always had a soft spot for frog legs. He knew many would frown upon it but when cooked just right, they could be delicious.
With his dinner still strung on the end of the gig, he walked back to the bank along the marsh and stepped into his little aluminum boat. The bottom of it was lined with old fishing line and dried fish guts. The oar he used to paddle away from the bank was stained with blood on the end, the result of dinner from two nights ago in the form of a slow groundhog.
