As I turn off the engine, I fix my gaze on an unfamiliar silver food truck situated right next to where I normally park. I climb out and walk over, zeroing in on the Union Jack flag decal that rests on the left side of the window. Over the window reads “Hungry Chaps” in bold black letters. On the right side of the window is a cartoon image of a plate of fish-and-chips and some half-moon-shaped pastry.

I sigh. Hungry Chaps must be a new addition to the island food truck circle. They must not be aware of the unofficial policy of not encroaching on another truck’s territory. I practice a smile and stroll to the closed window of the truck. It’s my turn to offer a friendly welcome and a polite explanation of Maui’s unspoken food truck etiquette to this newcomer, just as the established food trucks did for Mom and me when we first started. The rules are simple: no parking in spaces that other trucks have occupied long term, and no parking too close to another truck unless you have their permission.

Living on an island makes competition fiercer—there’s only so much space to begin with. When we first started out, we couldn’t find regular parking and had to drive all over the island from open spot to open spot. It was impossible to build a customer base that way, never having a consistent location where people could easily find us. It meant months of unsteady income, which meant we were barely breaking even.

I knock on the cloudy glass window. A lightly tanned face pops up from behind the counter. The window is so smeared that I can barely make out the person.

“Hi there! Do you have a sec?” I say.

“Absolutely! Just a moment,” an English-accented male voice answers. I smile. His accent sounds a lot like that of my uncle, who lives in London with my auntie Nora. I wonder if this guy’s from London too.

A thud sound and the clang of metal dishes crashing to the floor echo from inside the truck. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a man exit from the back.

He strolls up to me, kicking up clouds of dirt with his heavy steps. He’s a tall, sun-kissed drink of water with honey-hued hair cropped close to his scalp and a few days’ worth of dark blond scruff on his cheeks. I tilt my head back to get a proper look at his face. That’s a new one. I’m nearly five feet ten inches, and my neck is perpetually sore from having to peer down at people. But this guy has to be pushing six feet three inches, maybe even six four.