Tunisia; Night: Locke lies shivering -- trembling 'neath the stars. A pick-up truck approaches from the distance and he tries to wave it down. It speeds right up to him and nearly runs over his poor body. On the license plate there's a 342, then some Arabic script, then a 6346. Armed men, wearing keffiyehs hop out of the truck's cab and bed, scoop up Locke not at all gently, plop him down with a thud into the truck's bed, and then speed off into the night. I hope they're actually keffiyehs, because you would not believe how long it took me to Google that term.
Tunisia; Day: Locke is carried into a clinic, yelling in pain. He calms down and asks where he is. A doctor rushes to his side, but speaks in Arabic, so I don't know what he's saying. My guess is that Locke doesn't either. (The wee Locke in my desk says, "I grew up in Tustin, California in foster care. Do you think I had a chance to learn Arabic, Cindy?") Locke continues to ask questions, including if anyone speaks English, but they don't answer him. The doctor gets some pills from a medicine chest, sticks them in Locke's mouth and says, "You swallow." Hey! Oh. Locke, woozy from the pain, looks around. He spies his old orderly Matthew Abaddon just watching. His presence understandably inspires Locke to again ask, "Where are we?" The doctor ignores his questions and has him bite down on a piece of wood while he resets the compound fracture on his leg. Locke screams as well as one can when one has a stick stuck in one's mouth and tied to the back of one's head, then his vision starts to blur, he loses depth perception and finally passes out from the pain. Me too.