Augusta ponders blame and culpability. Looking at you, city council.
In the mind’s eye, Frank drives by the now empty lot after the disaster and thinks of his own emptiness, as in the past he came from. Growing up in Davis with an aunt he didn’t respect enough in retrospect. Didn’t take her woman power ways seriously enough. And now here he is desperately seeking the feminine in himself. Too much masculine: too many powerful, horse laden yellow cars and such.
Who to turn to in a crisis? Certainly not questionable tea dispensing Albert from Murkville. Should’ve screened him better before the hire.
Sunklands 