Kanani waited in the unoccupied bungalow, in the dark. She sat on a metal folding chair at the little dining table, her hands pressed to her knees. She had told Frankie it would likely be tonight, and now she knew it had to be tonight, what with all of Frankie’s mokes getting so drunk. Like local boys guzzling rum before a cockfight, they were juicing up for a big bloody kine bust ’em up, and soon. But it had to be Frankie alone. Adding to that was Frankie telling her that Wendell Lett was about to be shipped off to who knew where and used for who knew what. Her nerves ran hot and buzzed, like charges of electricity on a ranch fence.

She had tried empty bungalows and had located this one with the door unlocked. She then found Jock in his own bungalow, sitting on a chair in his tidy room, the pack with his few belongings at his feet. It included anything from the room that could identify him. He had the small photo of his girl in there, his travel papers, letters from his mother. She’d told him it was time to start doing what they had to do. What he had to do. He’d nodded, didn’t ask questions.

She had told him to meet her here in this unoccupied bungalow afterward. She chewed at her nails, caught herself, pressed her hands back to her knees. It just seemed like Jock was taking too long. But she wouldn’t let herself open the blinds to look. The one nearby light outside on a log pole lent the contours of the room a dim yellow glow. The rain came back. Broad spurts lashed against the window and dragged along the metal roof like sand, in and out with the wind like sweeps of a huge wet broom, irritating her nerves even more. She had her denim overalls on, and jungle boots she’d nabbed from the now–near empty quartermaster’s hut. She had the baby revolver in her hip pocket. Jock had no gun out there—he’d given his up because he was rotating out. She was expecting him to carry at least a fighting knife. They would just have to risk it.

The door banged and she shot up. Had someone knocked? Before she could get to a window the back door flung open and Jock rushed through the kitchenette to her, all wet and panting, his breaths controlled like a man climbing a long rope with much length and height yet to cover.

“It’s done,” he said.

“Tell me.”