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downstairs in my own bedroom, which was delightful because the room had its own lanai. Instead of using the downstairs air-conditioner, I could turn on the fan over my bed and open the sliding lanai door to the trade winds.
    I lay down on my bed, intending to close my eyes only briefly. The ceiling fan whirred lazily overhead, and trade winds came through the sliding doors I’d opened to the garden. I heard the sound of a strange bird singing its evening song, and the laughter of children somewhere farther away.
    Through my slightly opened bedroom door, I overheard my father speaking Japanese on the telephone, probably to someone at the hotel’s Japanese restaurant. Yes, he was ordering sashimi, rice, and of course, miso soup. In some corner of my consciousness, I remembered that my father shouldn’t eat miso because of the sodium levels. But I was too tired to intervene, too tired to do anything but lose myself in the soft purple twilight.

I T WAS FIVE-THIRTY when I woke—eight-thirty in the morning, California time—and I felt marvelous. I’d slept through dinner, and apparently everything else. And now, as soon as it was light, I would get to run.
    I pulled on melon-colored shorts and a red running tank and my socks, and walked out to the empty, dark kitchen. After swigging two glasses of water and brushing my teeth, I went through my running stretches. I tucked a house key and a ten-dollar bill into the ankle-strap wallet I used for running, and then I was off.
    The sun was rising, and already the pretty boulevards of Kainani were filling up. Elderly couples power-walked, young singles jogged, and fathers and mothers pushed strollers. Asian and Caucasian golfers cruised along in their carts; the resort’s gardeners, their faces hidden by cloth-draped hats, were just getting set up to work.
    I ran south along Kainani Boulevard, passing the timeshare high-rise Edwin had decried, then condominiums, and a series of swimming lagoons. Toward the ocean loomed a large white house, about a story higher than the others, and set apart from them by tall green conifers clipped to perfect uniformity, like hedges were in Japan. I ran a little closer and looked through the copper gate decorated with jumping dolphins. A rock column was inset with the blinking eye of a security camera, an electric doorbell, and a name in copper kanji characters. I took me a minute to read the Japanese name, Kikuchi, but no extra time to understand the English underneath. PRIVATE PROPERTY—TRESPASSERS FORBIDDEN.
    I jogged off, thinking about how the security camera must have caught me studying the house. Well, I thought defensively to myself, there had to be a lot of tourists staying at Kainani who would gawk at such a large place, especially since it had the water right behind it—unlike the townhouses, which all backed on to pleasant shared gardens. Only the Kainani Inn, the timeshare tower and the Kikuchi house had direct beach access.
    Because of the pleasant breeze, I decided to run farther, even as I approached a wire fence marking the resort’s border. A person-sized gap in the tall wire fence separated the green resort from a dry, rocky brown field that stretched to infinity. Obviously, this was an informal network of paths for workers coming and going from Kainani.
    I squeezed through the gap and ran on, enjoying the feeling of being almost off the beaten track. It was an interesting place, with the sparkling ocean and a small industrial harbor on one side, and the towering mountains on the other. In the field, small herds of horses had their heads down, eating up seed pods that had dropped from the lacy kiawe trees growing profusely through the landscape. Kiawe was the same as mesquite; it had been introduced to the island to feed horses brought by settlers. Now I imagined that animal grazing was one of the few things that could be done with fallow land that had once held fields of sugar cane.
    Two more miles, and the dirt path ran