He stumbled slightly, the limp in his leg still there. He dared not to look at the place he used to call home. He could feel the heat from the fire, the fire that he himself had ignited. He blinked back tears, as he limped away.
Okay, first of all, who names their dinner? I don't want to know my dinner's name. This potato--is this potato named Steve? — Rick Riordan, The Sword of Summer
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