But Moe had slowed and turned and nosed the truck into a half-hidden driveway that led through the tall grass, and when he came to the broad scrawled sign—KAPU—he kept going.

“I know this place. I know these people.”

Then they were at the edge of the clearing, a dog barking and straining on his long leash.

“Aloha,” Moe called out, and strode to the man seated near the dog.

In a blue haze of smoke from a smoldering fire pit, the man was sprawled on the car seat set on the ground that served as a sofa, his baseball cap resting on his frizz of hair, the same T-shirt, ALOHA FUN RUN, on his torso. He got to his feet and crouched in a threat posture, but his look of ferocity vanished when he recognized Moe. He shouted, “Mr. Kahiko, mushroom man—what you got for me?”

“Anything you want, Jimmy.”

The two men hugged. Still in the hug, glaring over Moe’s shoulder, the man said, “Why these fucken haoles here?”

“My friends,” Moe said, disengaging himself and, with a little chivalrous bow, “And now your friends.”

A movement from beyond the barking dog—two women stirred, one scuttling on all fours like a puppy from beneath the shelter of blue plastic, the other unfolding herself from the old car’s backseat. Both women looked damaged, one of them fattish, her hair twisted in gray braids, the other squinting from under slatted lids, in a ball cap and apron. The one with the ball cap went to the fire pit and kicked the smoldering wood, sending up sparks.

“Where the kids at?”

“They got school, yah.”

“I know this guy,” the woman with the braids said to Sharkey. “I see you before.”

Olive said, “We paid you a visit about six weeks ago. We were looking for someone. You told us to go away.”

“My short-term memory is junk,” the woman in the apron said.

The other said, “I thought you was from Child Protective Services. Come to take my kids away.”

The big man approached Sharkey, who was scowling from the fury of the barking dogs. The man said, “Yeah—you. I remember.”

“We brought you some malasadas,” Olive said, presenting the woman with a cardboard box, the sides of the box stained by the grease from its contents.

“Still piping hot, the malasadas,” the woman with the braids said. She offered the box to the big man, who waved her aside, and then she took one out and began chewing.

“I’m Olive.”

“This Winona,” the woman with the braids said. “I’m Rhonda.”

“Kimo,” the big man said, extending his hand to Sharkey’s and gripping it. “Normally, like I always say, we the Foreign Legion—no names. But if Moe say you friends, we got names.”

“I’m Joe Sharkey.”

Rhonda giggled and poked Sharkey’s arm, like a small girl’s awkward greeting.