Liko laughs at his friends as they fumble in the underbrush, kiawe lacerating their bare legs. It was his idea to hike down to the beach in Waimanu Valley with nothing but a bottle of vodka and a couple of cans of Spam, spawned from late night talk story at the drag races on the Queen K. Keala said it was stupid, and they’d probably end up dying, falling off the trail along the switchbacks, but Liko punched him in the arm, calling him a pussy, and Keala shut right up. Alika grunted agreement through his lit cigarette, the haze curling around his shaved head.

Liko feels their lives in his hands as he leads them. He knows that the mud and the switchbacks and the gulches will hurt them and free them at the same time. As they did for him. He hears Keala wheezing, his fat ass dragging in the back. Liko speeds up, refusing to hear Keala telling him to slow the fuck down, Alika keeping silent and trudging along. Liko thought about running ahead and hiding, jumping out to scare them and maybe make them fall down into Waipio Valley below, but even he’s not that much of a dick.

As they crest the rise, ready to walk across the plateau, the waves of golden brush remind him of last summer and hanging out at Keala’s house because he had a Nintendo. That fucker still had a Winnie the Pooh on his fucking bed, but he let it slide because Keala’s mom made the best Spam musubi, even better than 7-Eleven’s, always checking on them, making sure they were comfortable and Keala had his inhaler. He wished his own mom was as good at cooking and taking care of him, always just Hamburger Helper or canned tuna and rice at his house because she never had time to cook, always working extra shifts at the hotel. Liko slows down a little to let Keala catch up, his wheezing and coughing echoing in the gulches.

At least Alika is quiet. He always is. Liko likes that about him. Liko once saw Alika at one of the homeless encampments at Pine Trees. Saw him coming out of one of the tents. Liko never said anything to anyone about it. That’s how much he liked having Alika around.

He stops at the top of the trail, the froth of the waves collecting on the black sand beach below, and pulls out the vodka, opening it up and taking a long swig, passing it to Alika, hearing him gulp and swallow, and listening over the gusts of wind from the ocean for Keala to stop wheezing long enough to drink.