The Republic of Hawaii, to Kristin’s surprise, looked just like it did in magazines: a tropical paradise. Granted, Honolulu teemed with traffic and tall buildings, but it was warm and sunny and functional. She’d had the impression that it was a last refuge of slackers and hippies. Apparently a lot of her impressions were flawed. Just a hypothesis, she told herself. Observe, analyze, then revise as necessary. Considering how her world had been turned upside down, she didn’t have much choice.
Ironically enough, Petra’s friend Tim was a hippie, albeit an aging one. Kristin couldn’t help but grin at the dancing bears tattooed down his right arm as she, Naveen, Petra, and Tim had lunch in the man’s cluttered apartment.
Kristin listened as the others talked, quietly eating the bologna and American cheese sandwich that Tim had supplied. She felt like a third—or fourth—wheel, but the others didn’t seem to mind her being there.
Her attention wandered to the bit of driftwood sitting on top of newspapers in the middle of the table. The pale yellow wood had a strange grain, and was twisted into a Möbius strip.
“Like it?” Tim asked, smiling through his salt-and-pepper beard.
Kristin blinked. “Yeah. It’s interesting. Where’d you find it?”
Tim chuckled and tapped his temple.
“I, um, don’t understand,” Kristin said.
“I carved it!” Tim proclaimed, scooping up the piece of wood. He thrust it at Kristin, who accepted the supposed objet d’art. “It’s my best piece yet.”
Kristin gave Tim a grin. “Cool.” Although she didn’t know a thing about art, she was happy to compliment her host. Besides, Möbius strips were cool. She turned it over, noticing how light it felt. “What kind of wood is it?”
“Pineapple.”
“Pineapple wood?” Naveen asked around a mouthful of sandwich. “I guess there’s such a thing.”
“The fruit,” Petra said, smiling. “It’s dehydrated pineapple.”
Kristin tried not to frown. “Oh. That’s, um, different.”
“You bet,” Tim agreed. “The gallery on Sixth Avenue has sold four already. I’m pioneering a whole new art scene!”
“That’s awesome, man!” Naveen leaned across the table to high-five Tim. Kristin watched the celebration with a polite smile plastered on her face.
Petra, Naveen, and Kristin entered Queen’s Hospital a half-hour later and went straight to the third floor. There was no need to stop at the gift shop. Naveen carried a get-well present from Tim: a dehydrated pineapple carving of a turtle, neatly wrapped in newspaper from September. Kristin couldn’t wait to see Craig’s reaction.
They arrived at room 314 to find a white-coated doctor standing with his back to them beside what Kristin presumed to be Craig’s bed. She’d never seen a doctor with long blond hair pulled back in a ponytail before. Maybe Hawaii was a refuge for hippies after all.
Naveen stopped in the doorway. Kristin and Petra stood a respectful distance behind him. “Hey, Doc,” Naveen said. “How’s my buddy doing?”
The doctor mumbled something. Kristin thought she saw one of his arms make a sweeping gesture, but with Naveen blocking much of the view she wasn’t sure.
“Doc?” Naveen said, taking a step into the room. “Craig? You okay, man?”
“It’s okay,” a male voice said in a near-whisper. “Let him finish.”
Naveen waited, clenching and unclenching his free hand. Kristin lowered her mental protections for long enough to feel the young man’s emotions: worry bordering on anxiety.
Petra moved into the doorway. “What’s wrong… oh.” The hippie doctor continued muttering inside the room.
Kristin gulped, then asked the nict telepathically, What’s going on?
Wait out there.
Her reply made Kristin more uneasy. I’ll get security.
No!
Kristin started to argue, but movement in the room distracted her. The doctor’s arms shot straight up, and something glistened on his hands. Her stomach sank; it was blood.
The doctor leaned forward and down, out of Kristin’s field of view. Both Petra and Naveen tensed, but didn’t move otherwise.
The muttering ended. Someone drew a deep breath.
Naveen stalked into the room. “You!”
Petra hurried after him. “Naveen, don’t—”
Kristin moved into the doorway. Naveen was closing on the doctor, a slender, fair-skinned man. Despite his bloody hands and the bloodstained knife laying on the hospital bed, the supposed doctor seemed unconcerned.
The young man, whose dark skin was unmarred, bolted upright in the bed. “Stop!”
The doctor turned to face Naveen, raising one red hand.
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Photo credit: http://www.flickr.com/photos/boliston/2529247354/