As Delly walked past the old shipyard, she couldn’t help but feel a chill race up her spine. She had been walking the same route – from home, down Ravine Street, a right on Beel Street, and up Webster Hill back to home – for a long time now. 5, or 6 or 7 years; she couldn’t remember. It never failed though, that feeling she got every time she passed a skeleton of an old ship. Delly wasn’t even sure what exactly happened at the shipyard. Although there were cars parked along the skinny street during the week, she never saw people. Or maybe there were people, but she never noticed them. It was hard to take her eyes off the ships that were docked along the shore. It wasn’t as if this were a wide and well-traveled part of the river. Actually, this wasn’t the Hudson at all. It was a sleepy creek that met the river in Kingston. This was part of the problem; Delly had trouble understanding how the massive, ancient ships arrived in the Creek in the first place. Surely they weren’t functional anymore – did they get tugged in? In all her time in Kingston, she never saw one of these ships being brought into the creek. Their appearances in the yard were as ghostly as the shells she now looked at.