Lett could smell the fresh wood of the raised foundation and the framing around them and the siding, none of it painted or stained yet. Once his sweat dried, something about the stark arrangement started appealing to him. Nail heads were spaced neatly and still shining. The metal blinds were three-fourths closed—all equally turned—to let in just enough light. And that utilitarian furniture. Everything was spick-and-span. He hoped this meant this camp was all business despite the lack of warning signs, and that appealed to him even more so and deep down, like the first warm rush of a field hospital morphine—drip, drip, drip. It should’ve sent him running for cover. He should’ve felt the jolts running through his right leg, and his leg should’ve been rapping away at the floorboards like a sewing machine needle at top speed.

“Know who came up with that saying?” Kanani said.

“What saying?”

“‘Go for broke.’ Us Hawaiians.”

Then, footsteps sounded on the porch. The door opened. In strode a man who pivoted to face Lett jauntily, like a gent holding a top hat and cane. He wore the same summer khaki without insignia, but it fit him like a wealthy tourist’s casual wear. This was not buffoonish. This was not glib.

Lett had to look away a moment. He felt his joints firm up. He noticed his hands had clawed. Kanani saw it, too. He pressed them flat to his thighs and held his chin higher.

The man had not yet smiled, though his easy good looks and a hint of dimples promised that he would any second.

“Captain Selfer?” Lett said.

“It is I. Welcome back, soldier. Though, it’s lieutenant colonel now,” Selfer said to Lett. He glanced down at his unadorned lapels. “Not that anyone’s counting here.”

Two whole ranks in under three years? The man must hold the record in the high jump.

“Well? Here we are,” Selfer continued. “They told you I’d meet you here, correct?”

“Yes. Correct.”

Kanani shot Lett an urgent look.

Lett said to Selfer, “This is Kanani Alana.”

“Yes, I know,” Selfer said. “How do you do?”

Kanani only nodded.

“Thank you,” Lett added to Selfer. “I really need to thank you for this.”

He and Kanani joined Charlie Selfer over in the metal armchairs in the corner only after he gestured for them to do so. He still sounded like a dashing man in a movie, though not as much as Lett had remembered. Selfer always seemed to resemble certain things more than he ever actually was certain things, Lett recalled. He looked the type to wear a pencil-thin mustache yet still didn’t; people only remembered him that way after the fact, after he’d plied you with his smooth talk. At least he was wearing less hair tonic than during the war, Lett noticed.