10) Upon a stretcher, shrouded under a white silk sheet, I was carried to the dock. My natives set me down and left my side, forever. They were called away by a voice I certainly didn't hear. A small place, this port. Scattered masts, chipped and battered bows listing. Lazy commerce. Nothing decays, it only sinks. My conveyance, secured to weathered pilings, is no longer a ship, but a far smaller, rusting, derelict thing. How did I miss its decline? The ship's demotion to boat, I don't get it. I see it, but I don't get it. And now from boat to scrap is just moments away. Locals on the shore laugh at its rapid aging. From sparkling railings, doubled, clear glass, fresh paint, it is now a wreck. It is good thing we don't clearly see the thing that frames us. We might fail, prove unproductive, fearful. I don't know what else to say. I am glad to be ashore.

The boat's natives are gone altogether. I am surrounded by even smaller people. A group of them hoist my stretchered self. They point and shout in hummingbird tones about my new neighborhood. Up the hill. They make my way. Hands grasp, reach for my person. No! I will not relinquish my backpack. Walking would be satisfying for me. Weight is good. I've thousands of miles ahead of me. Why would I care about a mere constitutional up a barren hill? But Dr. Creep has given strict orders that I am to be carried. I feel smuggled, very special. Someone tries to remove my sheet. I cannot explain to Mr.and Mrs. Local, so I lightly punch them, with affection, hoping to make myself clear. Anger. Yet even if they wanted to kill me, they are so small it would take more than a hour, what, with their tiny hands. They would tire, that's my bet.
Off to my 'recovery center'. Dr. Creep has made it sound like something more than a shack with a hole in the floor for recuperative shitting. I don't think he's been there. Unless he's there now.