Is the canoe wood or aluminum?
And now we acknowledge that in all of these events we have not once thought about the canoe's role in all of this. The boy had built the canoe with his own two hands. The canoe had never been without the boy. They'd been through everything together: rivers, lakes, even some large puddles. The canoe only wanted to serve the boy. He relished the opportunity to hold the boy safely in his seats and float the boy of sparkling waters. When the boy had decided to make the trip into town, the canoe had been thrilled. The canoe was elated when the boy had dropped him into the water and jumped in with his three cebus. He'd done his best to float the boy gently down the river even when the unruly mute cebu started rocking back and forth and making a fuss. Nothing would stop the canoe from doing its job. No one was going to ruin the boy's enjoyment of his trip into town. The canoe did his best to keep steady and safely guide the boy to town. He had been mortified to find that he had led the boy right into the path of a hippo. He'd failed. The boy was in danger, and it was all his fault. The canoe had not even felt the pain when he had shattered on the bottom of the river. He only worried for the wellbeing of the boy. He was overjoyed when the boy surfaced in the river. He had been unharmed. It was a miracle. The canoe waited for the boy to come gather his scraps and put him back together, but to his surprise the boy did not come. The boy stalked away toward the cebus. He hadn't even thought of the canoe. The canoe was devastated. This boy he had known his entire life had left him scattered across the river like pieces of trash. His creator, his best friend, had not given him a second thought. He was crushed. He sat there in pieces scattered atop the water with no hope of being rebuilt or loved ever again. Just some scraps in the water. Wooden scraps to be precise.