You don't see any of this. In the cool safety of your blue tent you begin to snore like an intoxicated honey bee. Your mother shakes her head as David climbs back onto his board and gazes determinedly at the next wave. “Too bad.”
        I nod. “At least he's trying.”

        The bark beetle carries the worm to its nest, where it will feed its young for up to six months.

        As Margie the pregnant cop lies beside Norm the duck painter on a deep Minnesota winter night, staring bleary-eyed at the Nature program on their bedroom TV, she's trying to solve a murder mystery. On Lana`i, we're trying to solve the mystery of how to live our lives together.
        As the summer wears on, no one tries harder than Michael, who turned twelve a couple of weeks before we flew out here. A casual observer might mistake Michael's preference for solitude for the grim brooding associated with classmates he refers to as “Goths.” But from what I can tell, Michael's private thoughts are seldom grim or selfish. Most of the time he seems to be worrying about the rest of us, particularly Daniel. Michael is reluctant to talk about personal things; nevertheless, not long after Independence Day I begin to sense he has something he wants to say.
        On a cool evening in mid-July I take advantage of the fact that your mother is feeding you, and ask Michael to go for a walk. We take the northern route through town, up-camp, through long pine shadows stretching across the park, past tiny tin-roofed plantation cottages, up Ke-o-muku Road on past the elegant Lodge at Ko`ele. We don't say much until the magnificent copper roof of the Lodge is behind us. Then Michael says simply: “Dad?”
        I don't reply, just keep walking along the edge of the gray asphalt road, waiting for Michael to find his own way to his question. Around us, the white, white world is changing once more. To the west, above the abandoned pineapple fields overgrown with weeds, the sun sinks toward the aluminum blue surface of the sea. The low, bending light is golden, laminating the open plain with a honey tint. In the gilded light Michael's face looks bronze but soft, as the brave but frightened young prince of Maui might have looked when he came ashore here half a millennium ago, banished by his father to the Island of Ghosts.
        “What kind of life do you think Daniel's going to have when he grows up?”
        I draw a deep breath and think about this before answering. “An independent life, I hope. With a job and a place of his own to live. That's what your mom and I want for him.”
        Michael's brow tightens as we climb a rise toward the point where Ke-o-muku Road bends east over the backbone of the mountain. “But what kind of job could he have?”
        “I honestly don't know. It depends on who Daniel turns out to be.”

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