XII
Frog paced around the edge of his pond. The studio was still in shambles from his fight with the crew, and he preferred to leave it that way—the shattered cameras, the broken glass, the overturned tables and chairs, the rack lights hanging down like black zigzags across the blue screen—silent aftermath. His rage often got him into trouble, but this time it was right. He had orbited the pond at least two hundred times. He was keeping count. Another hundred and he might pay for his anger with the right amount of after-patience, something his father taught him. Now there was a dragon that had terrible anger. His father would have destroyed the building and walked away without a single flesh wound.
This was the first round of thoughts since his meditation. He pushed them out of his mind
