Sharkey was still talking when there came a sudden shattering crash that was both a succession of loud bangs and an urgent thump on the chassis. The rapid three-part noise was like a tree branch collapsing onto the car, so explosive that Sharkey’s chest smacked the steering wheel. He lost his grip, he foundered. At once a low portion of the windshield splintered into his lap, pricking his arms with shards. Olive squawked in fright, her hands flying to her face.

Stamping on the brake and swerving onto the roadside, Sharkey came to rest and clutched his face, babbling in confusion, and then Olive saw a twisted bike and a motionless man who’d hugged himself into a bundle.

“Jesus,” she said as she shoved her door open. She crouched over the man, seizing his wrist for a pulse. The rain flattened her hair, plastering it against her face. Her shoulders were skinny in her soaked clothes. Even in the rain the smell of alcohol coming off the man was strong. In the light from Sharkey’s car, Olive could see a gaunt face drained of blood yet serene and unmarked, as if made of wax. Except for the eyes—wide open and dull and disappointed—it was a martyr’s death mask of surrender.

“He’s gone,” she said in a small voice. Sharkey was staggering from the car, groaning with effort. “The man’s dead,” and she raised her anguished face to Sharkey, who knelt next to her, frowning.

Cars slowed down, the drivers gaping. A policeman stepped out of a blaze of blue lights, raking the scene with a flashlight.

“That your car?”

Sharkey said, “It was an accident.”

“He must have been riding toward us,” Olive said. “I just checked him. No discernible pulse. I think he’d been drinking.”

“He was on our side of the road,” Sharkey said.

“Don’t move him.” The policeman began talking into his phone. “DeSouza. Code One—serious. I’m going to need an ambulance at Waimea. We’ve got a collision. One man down.” When he clicked the phone off, he said to Sharkey, “You okay?”

“I’m good.”

“Let’s see your license and registration.” Working his flashlight over him. “Was you buckled up?”

“Sure,” Sharkey said, and Olive looked away.

“You’re Joe Sharkey,” the policeman said, moving his flashlight from the license to Sharkey’s pale face and bleeding arms.

“That’s me.”

“I seen you here at Waimea, way back, on a big wave. My old man surfed Waimea. Ray DeSouza.”

“‘Ray-Ban,’ we called him.”

Her voice cracking with anger, Olive said, “What about this poor man?”

“You knew him?” The policeman turned away from Olive to concentrate on Sharkey, who lowered his arms and stood in the rain, nodding. “Was one great guy. Wish he was here. He pass.”

“Bummer.”

“For the love of god,” Olive muttered, peering down the road as though for relief.