Dabs passed the docks and three floating giants with their gang-planks out, casting a shadow over Ketchikan as they unloaded the visitor. The tourists grazed on the greenery of the wooden docks until guides corralled each mass with signs. Giggling at his own naughtiness, Dabs tagged along with one of the walking tours. Gripping the group with crisp annunciation and mild humor, the guide wore every bit of her ninety-eight pounds, including her blonde hair, in a tight coil.
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“Here in Ketchikan, we get
One hundred and eight inches
of rain a year.”
She gestured in an arch above her head. Her voice bubbled with antidotes yet her eyes flashed her Chihuahua fangs. Dabs glanced at his fellow tourists: the look was for him alone. Feeling a bit unwelcome, Dabs decided to ditch the tour. By then they had walked a block to inland to a creek and a boardwalk. “This is Creek Street our historical red light district.” The guide said rolling her shoulders. Her eyes warned Dabs
Crimes of all kinds have happened here.
Dabs fell in love there, not with the Chihuahua Girl (as far as he was concerned, she could move along) but with the place. Back at the ferry terminal, a horn blew the warning that the M/ V Columbia was about to sail. Dabs couldn’t hear it, yet he checked his watch at that moment. In the past, the pain of being late would always become physical. This time he inhaled, closed his eyes and chucked his boarding pass into the creek.
Notebook 
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