Dr. French was retiring early. His military pension but mostly his many private investments, would have to do some heavy lifting in the coming years to keep him floating. That or he would have to tighten his belt, stop wagering money on his online chess. His last order as the hospital director was charting a helicopter from the hospital roof to his garden.

The chopper came down slowly, wind rattling the fence, and blowing a tarp back and forth. Then the Dr jumped off into a snowbank, hands frozen from gusts flying from the blades spinning cold air that bounced off stone walls. As he ran waving to the EMT pilot who was waiting to make sure he was safe, the doctor rushed into his entrance, then he was in one house.

The Maine house and the guest houses sat high up on the ocean rocks. He entered the room, lost in thought pacing the hard wooden floors made in the 1890's. A lighthouse on a distant rock could be seen through big intricate glass windows facing the harbor, its horn sounding faintly as waves hit rocks. Dr. French checked his messages before coming to the warm embrace of the heat from the granite fireplace. Stretching his older but still well-maintained body near it before pacing again, making way back to his glistening aluminum refrigerator.

The door banged open to reveal a black plastic five gallon pail sitting inside, jars and jars of real mayonnaise stacked against the fridge door. The Seal had been fishing, and lobsters were crawling in the bucket. Now the doctor would have to keep fortifying his trenches, so he headed for his trench gun. Collective property on the Earth was ever shrinking, he had to fend for himself.

And so the humble doctor immediately went all out online, setting up a large dinner party. Ordering fancy catering service for his lobsters, importing china and plates plus cigars for all the other doctors. His Seal would screen them into the area. Inside one of his three of many houses all sat on the same decking overlooking the oceanfront in late April. Where waiters carried orders of many local seafood in and out. The scene was old fashioned, he even had a wooden trap for decor. A rusted anchor hung over the fireplace, and a propeller perched by the steps of the porch.

Doctors gathering outside to get their smokes saw a boat on the horizon. As it got closer the guests couldn't tell that all the bait and lobster boxes had been taken off, but they did notice all the men and women dressed aboard in full suit attire.

"What are they doing? '' croaked one old crone as Dr. French stepped onto his deck with his binoculars. He found the boat idling away as the captain of the vessel gave a speech. The doctor glanced at the other guests aboard, who had tears in their eyes as they said their goodbyes as ash was dumped rudderless into the churning sea.

Jazzmine Thomas was the old crone on Dr. French’s deck that had been annoying him, she continued. “Suppose Doctor, that I own the most property out of anyone else on this big island,” she said while drinking wine.

“I'm sure you do, I’m sure you do” said the Dr. shoulders resting on a railing as the sea splashed nearby.

“I’m sure of it, you're sure of it, and you know I'm actually trying to sell some of it off for my retirement, if you want to talk about that somewhere” said Jazzmine shivering in her cashmere as the cold water splashed on her, chilling ancient bones.

Dr. French looked off to the horizon, smelling the sweet smell of sea, the sound of waves, seagulls and sea ducks was so relaxing.

“Unfortunately I have no money” he said, letting his fingers open, and arms out to show they were empty.

“Well at least you're honest,” she said, giving a small laugh as she walked away.

The Doctor rested his chin on his fist, as he watched the funeral boat leaving the waters of his island. He was going to need more money if he was to attract a new wife after the last one had left him. He headed off to a more secluded location on his property to make some important phone calls.