mainland.
        He looked at his cell phone. Nine-thirty. He got up and cleaned the table, retrieved clean clothes from the back room, shaved, took a shower, and by ten fifteen again moved down the steps to the street, but this time got into the little rental car – a dark blue P.T. Cruiser – and navigated down hill to the Kalanianaole Highway, then right toward Honolulu. At Waialae Avenue he veered off and glided under the highway, turned left onto Kilauea Avenue and right into the parking lot, parked and went inside Kahala Mall.
        He’d come to love this mall, now familiar with all its nooks and crannies, the upscale shops, clothing stores, movie theatres, and kiosks. He was quickly forgetting his guilt for being a Caucasian in a place of Asians, and a mainlander, a howlie. We live in a modern world, he told himself. The locals don’t dwell on the fact their people were conquered and subdued by white men like him. Ancient history. Enjoy your day. Much aloha.
        He moved leisurely through the main corridor, veered with it to the right, then came to his favorite stop of all: Starbuck’s. As he did each day, he bought a vente cappuccino for himself, a vente latte for Ingrid, and several pastries to be divvied up between them. Ingrid no longer worried about calories or food quality. She just ate whatever tasted good. He put it all in a carry-cart and moved back through the throngs, past the movie theatre, the clothing shops, the T-Mobile store, and out to the car.
        It was amazing what an expert he’d become on Oahu’s topography. A month ago when he’d been here with Deborah, he would get lost, stray into blind alleys, take out-of-the-way routes everywhere he went. Now he was an ace, wasting no time, moving smoothly via every short cut, knowing which lane to use and when to merge. He got back onto Waialae Avenue, up the ramp to high ground, past blocks of modest stucco buildings to 10th Avenue, then right into a rolling suburban landscape. He followed the long, meandering road up the hill to Palolo Hospice, parked on the street out front, climbed the stairs and stepped inside.
        Palolo Hospice was a one-time private residence, a typically simple Hawaiian wood-framed structure. The front door opened to a spacious living area with hardwood floors, several couches, and a TV set. To the left and to the rear, four rooms had been converted into patients’ quarters, each with an exterior window, closet, and bathroom. To the right, an open-air kitchen where Sharon, in her white nurse’s uniform, was cleaning the counter.
        “Good morning!” Michael chirped.
        “Good morning,” she responded. “How are you today?”
        “I’m fine,” he said. “I mean, how