As the lava continued to flow toward Hilo, Nori and Samuel retreated to their own safe places, both becoming sentimental, mindful of all they had to lose. A few days earlier, Nori noticed some items in their apartment missing, a family photo when the boys were young, a few kitchen utensils, and a small needlepoint cushion Samuel’s mother had given them. She later found that Samuel had quietly packed them away in a box in their bedroom closet. Without a word, Nori added to the box—a comfortable pair of shoes, her favorite wooden rolling pin, and her father’s ukulele. It was the one good memory she had of him, her father playing his ukulele and singing, “Oh my darlin’, oh my darlin’, oh my darlin’ Clementine.” His runny eyes focused just long enough to really see Nori, until the song was over and she quickly lost him again to the stink and haze of the ti root alcohol. Try as she did, she couldn’t find one good memory left of her mother.

They established other habits. Each evening after the market closed, Samuel went down to the docks to check on the Okawa fishing boat and see the boys. Nori knew her husband enjoyed the distraction of having a beer with Wilson or Mano and his old fishing buddies at Hoku’s Bar down at the wharf. The two-story building, with its faded wood exterior and slumping corrugated overhang, had always looked like a structure on its last legs. It had survived the corrosive sea-salt air, howling typhoons, and drunken fist fights for the past fifty years and was beloved by the fishermen. Inside the dark and cool interior, it smelled of fried fish and stale beer, while the ceiling fans turned too slowly to generate any real relief. “More beer sold that way,” Wilson had once explained to her. Now they hoped it would survive Mauna Loa.

“Be back soon, yeah,” Samuel said, pausing at the door.

Nori smiled at his reassurance. “Tell the boys I love them,” she said before locking up behind him.