Day one: Ow.
Day three: It’s dark and humid like an armpit. It smells like piss because of the bucket in the corner. Peter’s split knuckles are probably infected.
Day seven: A bionic hand would be cool. Peter would rather never feel his organic one again. He wishes he’d learned more songs from the Zune; he’s hummed through Hollaback Girl two hundred thirty-eight times so far.
Day ten: If only Gamora were here. Or Drax. Anyone.
Day ??: A lot of yelling. Everything’s fuzzy. Peter dreams he sees Rocket. You found me, Peter says.
Of course we did, dumbass, Rocket says.