“It come up big, the surf today night.”

She remembered her chuntering monologue, how Sharkey had said nothing, made no reply even to direct questions; how he had looked past her at the storm surf as they’d rounded the bay.

They were down the hill in minutes, the road silvered by the moon, and Moe ran the red light at Foodland, passing Rubber Duckies and Three Tables and then the overlook above the lava rocks of the bay. Olive strained to see Sharkey. That the beach was empty, the sand whitened by moonglow, did not reassure her. She thought, We’re too late—he’s gone.

Moe pulled into the parking lot, close by the changing rooms, where another car was parked aslant on the grass verge. Two people were visible inside, smoke trailing from a cracked-open side window, the mildewed aroma of smoldering pakalolo.

“Ask them if they saw him,” Olive called out.

But failing to get their attention by rapping on the car window, Moe pulled the door open. The man at the wheel said, “You a cop?” The woman beside him ducked, hiding her face.

“Looking for my braddah,” Moe said.

The man grunted and switched on his headlights, illuminating the beach, and at the ledge, in the slosh of the shore break, Sharkey stood facing the bay in water to his knees.

“Joe!”

Hearing his name, Sharkey plunged into the waves. He did not swim. He thrashed and fought the water, as though attempting to sink himself under a wave.

Moe sprinted to him and caught one of his flailing arms, while Sharkey protested, trying to yank his arm free, hitting Moe with his other arm.

“What you doing, you lolo?”

Olive approached, sinking in the wet sand, howling with a force that startled Sharkey, stalling him; and he surrendered to Moe’s embrace, looking defeated and ashamed as he was led to the car.

At the house Moe helped him through the door to his bed, Sharkey stumbling, and held him while Olive sedated him with two capsules, urging him to drink from the glass she tipped to his lips.

“What kine meds?” Moe said.

“Xanax.”

“We like snort it.” He allowed himself a cluck of recognition.

“He’ll be okay in the morning.”

Moe said, “He just flipped out.”

“Maybe he was afraid. We’re supposed to visit that homeless camp on the bypass road.”

“Kimo’s ohana,” Moe said.

“You know them?”

“I been there,” Moe said, sounding vague. “I wen’ sell some merch there.”

“Come with us.”

“Okay—you got it.”

She kissed him; he held her. He stank of dirt and sweat and seawater, and she began to cry, from the pent-up anxiety of the day—the police, the video of the funeral, the vanishing of Joe, and what she was certain was a clumsy attempt at suicide.

Over her sobbing, Moe said, “Smoke one joint, sister. Or maybe smash and snort one of them Xanax. You feel more better.”