They had descended to the coast road, he’d seen the waves, the white rollers of surf and the incoming swell. Sharkey gripped the steering wheel in both hands, as though in the cockpit of a plane, pulling it out of a nosedive, his forearms stiffened, pale with effort, making his tattoos bluer.

The waves were bawling. Olive could see from Sharkey’s reaction that the waves were speaking to him, rolling to the shore, daring him to ride them. She knew that Sharkey never saw a wave without imagining himself on it—and not merely on it, but crouched in a posture that suited that particular wave; and he often criticized the technique of the surfers who were on it. But these loud waves mocked him for driving past, reminding him that he’d once mastered them and that he was powerless now.

The wash and chuckle, the lap and swirl of breaking waves continued to Waimea, where Sharkey finally said, “Talk to me.”

“We’re almost home. We’re fine.”

He hated that she was trying to reassure him, as though he were weak; he hated most of all the suggestion of being weak. Approaching his driveway, he was surprised to see the big gate of solid boards sliding sideways on its rail, as though he’d given a signal. Then dark fingers on its edge dragging it and a face in shadow under the visor of a ball cap.

Moe Kahiko. He stepped from behind the gate and waved the car in, kicking a fat goose out of the way.

“I feed the chickens,” he said when Sharkey had parked, speaking to him through the car window. “Give some pellets to the gooses. Change the water—the water real dirty. And this,” he went on, reaching into his pocket. “I pick you some mountain apples—ripe, the apples. It’s all good, brah. You want me close the gate?”

These favors, this fussing, and his toothy smile: he stood at attention. Olive said softly, “This numpty wants something.”

He snatched the door open for Sharkey, clumsily deferential, while at the same time showing him a mountain apple, weighing the small pinkish fruit in his hand as though awarding a prize.

“For you, braddah.”

“He’s tired, Moe,” Olive said from the far side of the car.

“It’s okay,” Sharkey said. “You need something. What is it you want?”

“Nothing, brah!” And Moe laughed, mirthless and shouty. “I never want nothing. It Skippy, he need. I asking for Skippy Lehua.”

“Asking what?”

“That you go over to his surf hui and say something. Talk story.”

“But why are you asking?”

“I owe Skippy one favor. He help me out udda day, get me some products. But I have no money for give him. Can only pay when I sell ’em. But in the meantime I still owe him, like I wen’ say. He say if I no pay he give me lickings. ‘I come looking for you!’”