Denial. Anger. Bargaining.
"You... how could you?!"
"You told me I could talk to him. You promised!"
The anger didn't last long. Little Frank's eyes softened with desperation, clutching at any shred of hope, pleading again and again, seeking confirmation from Carl.
Carl took a deep breath and finally turned to look into Little Frank's eyes. "He fell... broke his neck. I'm sorry. I'm really sorry."
Carl finished speaking, returned to his seat by the aisle, and turned his head away, unable to look at Little Frank any longer.
Little Frank stared at Carl in disbelief, as if frozen, eyes filled with utter despair.
He didn't even feel sad—only hopeless.
Suddenly.
He began gasping for breath, as if suffocating, rubbing his chest in an attempt to feel the air, but it was too hard.
"No."
"No…"
Little Frank started dry heaving, clutching his hair and banging his head on the small table, his body convulsing uncontrollably, trembling all over.
"Carl, I'm gonna puke."
"Carl."
"I need to go to the bathroom; I'm going to throw up."
Carl quickly reassured the passengers around them and helped Little Frank to the restroom.
But.
Little Frank seemed to have vanished inside, and when Carl had the flight attendants unlock the door, they found it empty.
A living person had just disappeared.
Little Frank had unscrewed the drain in the restroom, climbed down near the plane's landing gear, and rolled away the moment the plane began its landing, slipping out of the FBI's hands once again.
So, where did Little Frank go?
His mother's house.
Little Frank fled all the way to his mother's door. The Christmas tree was lit with colored lights, and through the window, he could see his mother sitting on the couch flipping through a magazine. Peaceful. Serene. She exchanged a smile with her husband—a picture of happiness.
His mother didn't notice him.
But a little girl, two or three years old, appeared by the window, playing a harmonica, gazing at him sweetly.
Little Frank: "What's your name?"
The girl just smiled shyly.
Little Frank: "Where's your mom?"
The little girl turned her head and pointed—toward Paula.
Little Frank froze, staring at the girl, his eyes filled with panic, fear, and helplessness, shattering his once bright blue eyes until they lost all focus.
Behind him, police sirens blared. Squad cars swarmed in from all directions, surrounding him.
Little Frank turned his head, looking back at the chaos in front of him, his mind racing. He turned back toward the window, looked at the little girl, then at his mother, and a single tear escaped, sliding down his cheek.
Step by step.
Little Frank backed away, putting distance between him and the scene, raising his hands in surrender, silently watching the little girl, tears streaming down his face.
Then, he turned around.
"Carl, get me out of here."
"I need to get out of here, now. Carl, take me away."
Unexpectedly, Melvin felt wetness on his cheeks. He hurriedly wiped them, realizing his face was covered in tears.
Melvin felt a bit embarrassed, worried someone might notice.
But out of the corner of his eye, he saw others discreetly wiping their own tears and sniffling quietly. It was hard to tell whether it was from sadness or something else.
At least Melvin was safe, though his eyes were filling with tears again—
When the FBI took Little Frank away, the people in the house finally noticed something was wrong. Paula appeared at the door with her daughter and husband, the image of the family of three forever etched in Little Frank's eyes.
The camera shifted focus—from the family at the door to the shattered blue eyes of Little Frank, reflected in the rearview mirror of the police car.
"In light of the severity of your crimes, the history of your reckless actions and escapes, and your blatant disregard for U.S. law, I have no choice but to deny the request to treat you as a juvenile offender. I hereby sentence you to twelve years in the maximum-security prison in Atlanta, with a strong recommendation for solitary confinement throughout your sentence."
Little Frank was sent to prison. In the end, he couldn't escape.
The movie should have ended there.
But it didn't.
Carl came to visit in prison. "Merry Christmas, Frank."
Another Christmas Eve, and Carl was still by Little Frank's side.
Over time, an unusual bond formed between them. Not quite friends, not quite enemies, but something invisible connected them.
Carl not only came to visit but brought a gift—
A comic book. "The Flash."
"How's your daughter? What's her name?"
"Grace. Uh, I don't really know her. She lives with her mom in Chicago, and I don't see her much."
"What's in the box?"
Little Frank asked absentmindedly, but Carl didn't mind, answering openly. "I'm on my way to the airport. It's for a check forger working in Minnesota."
"Oh, God, he's driving us crazy."
Little Frank, who had been uninterested, suddenly perked up. "Did you bring the checks?"
Carl nodded. "I brought one he wrote at Great Lakes Savings Bank." He held it up for Little Frank to see through the glass. "He uses a platen press and a 'Kinoshita' typewriter."
Little Frank studied the check carefully, spotting the key detail instantly. "The forger's a bank teller."
Carl froze. "What?"
Little Frank: "It's gotta be a teller, Carl. Banks always hand-stamp the dates repeatedly, so the stamp wears down. The numbers are always broken—look at the 6 and 9; they've worn down first."
Carl stood there, stiff with shock. "Thanks."
The scene cut.
Carl reappeared, this time not as a visitor, but with the FBI assistant director, formally meeting with Little Frank in his official capacity as an FBI agent.
The assistant director handed Little Frank an envelope. "Tell me what you see."
Little Frank squeezed the envelope, touching the check inside, already knowing the answer. "It's a fake."
Carl: "You haven't even looked at it."
Little Frank: "The edge isn't cut properly. This check was hand-cut, not from a large sheet. The paper's too thick for a bank check. The magnetic ink—I can feel the raised texture, but it should be smooth. And it doesn't smell right; it's probably drawing ink, the kind you can buy at a stationery store."
While Little Frank talked, the camera zoomed in on Carl.
Closer. Closer.
From a close-up to a tight shot, Carl couldn't hide his pride, raising his eyebrows slightly at his boss, a subtle smile playing on his lips.
Melvin couldn't help but laugh, but he quickly straightened up, adjusting his posture.
In Carl's expression, you could see the pride of a father figure, a sense of satisfaction that, despite the seriousness of the situation, made you smile. It felt like this bond was the real direction of the story.
And sure enough—
"Frank, would you be interested in working for the FBI's financial crimes division?"
The assistant director offered Little Frank a job with the FBI. Under FBI supervision, Little Frank would be released early from prison to work for the financial crimes division, essentially "serving" his sentence as a government employee.
Little Frank: "Who would I be reporting to?"
Carl silently raised his right hand.