They sipped. She stared out at the stormy water. She stole another sidelong glance at him.

He wondered what she saw. When he made his deal to come here, the men in new suits who arranged it had showed him two photos. He hardly recognized himself in either. In one, he was twenty-one with a soft face with curly hair clinging to his forehead despite his somewhat squared head and jaw. He hadn’t yet seen combat. The second photo was recent, and though he was still only twenty-five, his face was skewed and screwed up as if he’d been holding his breath far too long. It might as well have been taken in a funhouse mirror.

She said, “You saw plenty bad things in the war, yeah?”

“Guilty,” he said.

“I seen you around here,” she said.

“I’ve seen you, too.”

She smiled. “Kanani is the name.”

“I know—I mean, I heard it around here before.” Lett repeated it anyway: “Ka-na-ni.”

She smiled wider.

“My name is Wendell,” he told her. “Wendell Lett.”

“Wendell? Ho, I like that name plenty.” She waved a hand, inexplicably. “Where you from, Wendell Lett?”

He’d just told her his name, so why not where he came from? He’d be sure not to mention The Preserve. “Ohio, originally. But I was an orphan.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Forget it. All in the past.” He didn’t add that his parents were long dead: his mother a basket case from overwork and dear old dad an alcoholic. He wasn’t sure how much more to tell her about his purpose here, as the pale man who met him at the steamer dock already warned him. Other facts were plenty damning. He had deserted during the war, though he wasn’t ashamed of it. He’d served on the front lines more than honorably, yet they pushed him to the point of cracking. The Preserve would keep him away from the possibility of a life sentence in military jail or worse. He wasn’t sure what duty would come after they cured him, and they weren’t telling. Though it was conceivable they would have him serve as some sort of clandestine instructor—that or they might want to interview him in depth about his experiences. He had kept assuring himself of this.

“I meant, what base you come from?” she said.

She was facing him, closer now, and Lett smelled the red plumeria in her hair. A breeze blew in and he could smell her too, clean and fresh like that flower just plucked, dew still on it.

“I, uh, came from the European Theater,” was all he said.

A boom rattled the bar, and another.

Lett started.

It was those waves again. Then the rain came, lashing like gravel on metal, like tank tracks squealing. The wind hurled the rain around, and foaming surf smashed at the black rocks.