Thousand: Three Hundred Eighty-Four

tensely, his jaw ajar, ears perked up, head turned to look down the road. The man groans again, rubs his arm which is scraped up. Fortunately his sport coat took the brunt of the gravel. He looks himself over, now that his eyes have adjusted to the glare. A couple small rips in his pants, skin scrapes on his hands and forearms, and his face, he’s sure, though it’s harder to assess that damage without a mirror. Well. Hell. What got into his head? He crawls out in the road to retrieve a shoe. If he’d known he was leaving