Now the siren of a distant ambulance overwhelmed the chugging of the waves.

“Let’s get out of this rain,” the policeman said. “Sit in my car. We’ll go to the station for a statement as soon as they take this guy away. I got to empty his pockets, check for an ID. You okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re limping.”

“Banged my foot in the accident.”

Onlookers had gathered, a small crowd, all dressed alike, in T-shirts and shorts, barefoot. The dead man was dressed that way too, but his clothes were muddied—whether from the crash or before, it was impossible to tell. Olive knelt and took the man’s pulse again, and slipped her hand into his and held it, pressing it softly, wishing for a miracle.

“Wipeout,” someone said in a low voice.

Another muttered, “He wen’ make.”

Then they sat, side by side, Sharkey and Olive, behind the divider grate of the squad car, and were soon taken away, up the long hill to Wahiawa.

“What are you going to do about that man?” Olive said.

“Sister, we seen that buggah before,” the policeman said.

At the station the policeman went to the counter. “Joe Sharkey,” he announced to another man in uniform behind the desk. The man rose to shake Sharkey’s hand. “I heard we got us a Code One. Officer DeSouza was first responder, so he’ll take your statement.”

Sharkey gave his statement—the rain, the darkness, the potholes—and as he spoke, pausing, offering more, he recreated the circumstances of the accident, and the seconds of impact became episodic, a whole halting narrative. “I saw him at the last minute,” Sharkey said. “I tried to swerve but he came straight at me.” Olive frowned. “He was cycling down the wrong side of the road.” Olive sighed, turning away. Detail upon detail, the story fattened and became fiction.

“Probably drunk—he stank real bad,” the policeman said. “We seen him a coupla times near that squatter camp on the bypass road.” He smiled at Sharkey. “Was you on the Pipe today? Was epic.”

“So who is he?” Olive asked.

“We don’t know. He was carrying a fake ID. I just ran a check on it. No hits.”

“I was out,” Sharkey said. “Got some good rides on triple overhead bombs.”

“Sweet.”

Sharkey stood abruptly and went outside. On the veranda of the police station, he stared into the rain, which was still pelting past the streetlamps, glittering in gold drops as it fell. Olive walked over to him, facing the downpour. She lifted his arm and draped it on her shoulder.

Sharkey said in the night, “I ran into a drunk homeless guy,” and Olive began to cry.