Olec was eager. He was sweet. He spent way too much time flapping around in his billions and billions of extrabrilliant brain cells and didn’t have a clue about women or social dynamics.

“Let me think.” I had zero premonitions on Olec. I stared into the air. I raised my eyebrows. I tried to drum up a faraway expression in my eyes. I frowned. I looked mad, then sad. “Yes. I see it. I do have a premonition about this situation. Now, don’t tell anyone, do you promise?”

“I promise.” His eyes were open wide, waiting for my miraculous wisdom.

“It doesn’t work out. You keep dating her and she keeps taking your money. It’s a request for money here and there at first, like with all the relatives you’ve helped, and she kisses you and gets you all steamed up and says all sorts of romantic things, but then it’s more and more money. You believe her because you have a warm heart, Olec, and you marry her and you lose almost everything in the divorce, even your log cabin and all your land,” I shook my head, so sad. “You lose half your dogs.”

His face twisted in pain. “No. No, not the dogs!”

“And she leaves you and moves out of the country.”

He gasped. “She is from Russia!”

“Does that make sense then, Olec, for her to have a sick father in Texas and a sick grandma in Mexico?”

“And a sick grandma in Louisiana.” His shoulders sagged.

“Lotta sick family members.”

“I knew it.” He shook his head, balding, but in a cute way. “I knew it in my brain, but I let my heart do the talking and the believing.”

“I’m sorry, Olec.”

“Me too.”

I gave him a hug.

“I will stop thinking with my heart.”

He went on Facebook on his phone.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m telling her I don’t want to speak with her any further because she is going to near-bankrupt me in the divorce and take my log cabin and half of the dogs, then I am blocking her.”

“Decisive.”

“I know you would never lie to me, Evie.”

“Never.”

And that is where ethics and morals and decision making comes in again, but I knew I did right by Olec.

* * *

A new chief came to our island. He was about five years older than me. He’d been an assistant chief in Seattle.

His name was Reginald Ashburn III. Not Reggie. Not Reg. Reginald. Don’t forget the III.

“Fancy pancy,” Gracie said.

“Too good for us,” Mr. Jamon said, leaning on his cane.

“He’s not an islander,” Koo said. “How did he get the job?”