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The bushes alongside the pond in the park in East Britain do not look tall enough or dense enough for anyone to hide behind, yet as the bottle floated near, a curved cane extended from the brush and hooked it by the neck, drawing it bobbing to the shore, where it was grabbed and yanked from view. A rustle of leaves began at the shoreline and receded into the distance. The bottle contained a torn scrap of newspaper covered with writing in mud from a pigeon-feather quill. Eventually, the note will be read and the following message unveiled:

Captain Hopper
East Britain Park Coast Guard
Search and Rescue Squadron

My Dear Captain Hopper,

I say, I was very grateful to receive your message and especially the pigeon who delivered it hrmph *burp*. The pigeons who live here in the park tend to be terribly distrustful, for some reason. I regret that your highly-trained courier is *hrmph* unavailable to carry my response, so I send this missive by the alternative means you suggested.
Although I have, as you suggest, been here in the park for over a year, I would hardly characterize my condition as “lostâ€