After an uneventful flight and a satisfying view of Diamond Head, Joe climbed the stairs to his apartment, a cloth shopping bag filled with paperbacks in one hand, his Filson bag in the other. "Yo, Batman! New books!" 18 Mo swirled special noodles around in her bowl. "So, did you find out? What's a story?" Joe handed her a manila envelope. "Here's one," he said. "A story is about change, is of change. It's obvious, I guess, but I couldn't see it. My instructor, Roland, finally said, 'Look, Joe, for God's sake--in a story, sooner or later, something has to happen to somebody."' Joe shook his head. "I kept trying to stop time, like a painter. I've got it now; stories model, take place, in time. The meaning is embodied in the movement--like a dance--you can't separate them." He sipped tea. "The school has been good, but I'm stopping after this semester. Too expensive. Diminishing returns. I just have to do it now--the writing." "It has been good for you," Mo said. "I have news." "Aha," Joe said. "Rob Wilcox. You remember? On Kauai? He's offered to go into business with me--a gallery and a fine art print shop with enough space to teach classes. He has a building on Queen Street. He'll supply the space and the money for equipment. I'll take care of the rest." Joe's cheeks flushed slowly. So that was why she had been so hard to reach. "Rob and I have known each other a long time. Did I tell you that?" He tried to remember. "We've become--closer," she said. "Lucky fellow." "I hope you'll come to the grand opening. When I have a date I'll send you an invitation." "Of course I will. It's a terrific idea. You'll do a great job." "A lot of work," she said into the middle distance. "But . . ." she shrugged and smiled. "Can't wait to read your story." They split the bill and left Hee Hing's, promising to get together soon. Joe went straight to the Moana. "Gilbert, I've got trouble." "What's her name?" Good old Gilbert. Joe was upset. He had thought of Mo as a possible partner, or lover. He had leaned on her without realizing it. It wasn't to be. Wilcox. Was it always about money? No, that wasn't fair. He had another drink and began to feel freer. "We're all grown up, here," he said in the direction of the beach. He ordered one for the road and toasted, "Your problem now, Wilcox." To hell with it. He declared the day over and ambled up Kalakaua Avenue smiling at strangers.