He sits. The bus jerks and pulls away from the restaurant. Kahoni’s voice booms over the loudspeakers, informing us that we are headed to the final stop on our tour: the active volcano part of Volcanoes National Park. Peter starts watching a movie on his phone and seems content to entirely ignore me.

I sigh. Once again, I chickened out.

I went with option one.

It’s getting dark when we arrive, which Kahoni timed intentionally, since the lava from the volcano is so much easier to see in the dark.

But first the group wanders through the visitors center. We learn about volcanoes, this type of volcano in general, and Kilauea specifically, how it formed the Hawaiian Islands, how it’s still forming them; right now as we’re hanging out buying postcards, the Big Island is getting bigger. There’s another island—I read this on the wall—a new one called Loihi that will appear to the southeast sometime in the next ten to one hundred thousand years.

I stop to examine a display of a scientist’s clothing and boots recovered after he fell into hot lava from a place he thought was solid but turned out only to be a thin crust over disaster.

I think about Pop. I can’t stop thinking about him. This one time we made a path of pillows all around the living room because Abby wanted to pretend the floor was lava. We hopped from pillow to pillow, Abby laughing that pure joy little kid laugh, and Pop chuckling right along with her. Pop chuckles. He’s what I hear in my head when I hear the word chuckle, this deep rumble of mirth from his broad chest.

I take out my phone and send him a text.

I miss you a million. I’m so pissed you’re not here.

We don’t say pissed in our family, but I say it anyway. I also use full spelling and punctuation because Pop hates text speak. He doesn’t reply. He’s probably sleeping or working. I’ve lost track of the time difference.

“Okay, people, let’s go see what all the excitement’s about!” Kahoni gathers us up to take us to the overlook of the volcano. He passes around binoculars so we can get a good look at the bright orange lava bubbling and spraying at this spot in the distance.

In the far distance.

The far, far distance.

Hence the binoculars.

We’re so far back it’s hard to see anything but a bit of orange, like fire. But we can’t walk any closer, because the ground isn’t stable. We don’t want to be that dude with the burned-up clothes.

It’s underwhelming. The contrast is nice—the bloom of orange against the gray rock and sky—but it lacks definition. I don’t think I could paint it, although I could try.