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trip thinking about it, while carrying on a meaningless conversation with Captain Amos.
     
     
Pretty soon though it's "Mountain 4-6-1, cleared to land, runway 1-7," and I'm standing on the tarmac at Kona Keahole. As I grab my bag and roll toward the terminal, I have that sudden feeling you get that you've forgotten something important. Then it dawns on me. I should have brought Halloween. No pit bull/cat hybrid to protect my dreams tonight, I'm on my own.
     
     
We shuttle into town, and have the usual lunch at the Royal Kona bar. Off shore the cruise ship is making its weekly appearance, there are an unusual number of jet ski plumes, and the surfers are out in large numbers. Or maybe the condemned man is simply more aware of his surroundings than usual.
     
     
Captain Amos has golf reservations up at Waikaloa, nine holes, four people. We get two of the flight attendants, rent a car, and head on out. My game is so bad it normally permits me to think of nothing else, but today I get to wonder if a Superman-Spiderman-Captain Marvel composite would be good at golf. I'm betting no. What iron could they use to only pitch 50 yards?
     
     
We stay up for dinner at one of the little outdoor cafes, and then drive back down after dark. On Hawai'i, on the Queen Kaahumanu Highway (highway meaning something different in Hawaii than in LA), dark is incredibly dark. There are 10 times as many stars as back home, plus the off chance of hitting a donkey crossing the road. Not quite like the 405, where the stars are human and the cars are full of asses.
     
     
Captain Amos and the flight attendants say good night, but one of them (not Captain Amos), despite actually having met Jen, knocks on my door a few minutes later, puts a finger to my lips and pushes me backward toward my bed. As a last meal, darn tasty. She's warm and playful, not as tight a body as Jen, but pleasantly bigger in some of my favorite spots. We finish and she slips back out of the room without saying a word.
     
     
My last conscious thought is that maybe the Fog Bastards sent her to tire me out. Either way, it's too late, and I can't keep my eyes open.
     
     
The fog is darker than it's ever been. Queen Kaahumanu would be proud if she likes her highway that dark. I can't really even see the fog, maybe just its shadow. Fog Dude isn't here either. He knows I don't need to talk to him, would be my guess. The light is just the other side of the fog, which I know despite the fact there is no light of any kind on my side of the fog.
     
     
I close my eyes, and spread my arms wide, palms open, giving in. I can see the light penetrate the fog even through my closed lids, bright as the sun ever is. I can feel the living light envelope me, crawl inside me, then squeeze itself down into some dark place I didn't know I had. Then I dream, clear as all the others. I'm five, maybe six, playing catch with my dad, my mom watching us. It's in a park near where we used to live, a little stucco house in Anaheim, in a neighborhood we'd never go near today. I miss the ball and run out into the street after it, both my parents yelling at me to stop. I don't hear them, nor the car bearing down on me. I do hear the screeching tires before it hits me, I hear my bones break against the pavement. I hear my mom scream my name, full of terror, knowing what she'll find. I hear my parents cry, I hear laughter somewhere far away.
     
     
It's nine when I open my eyes. I have to throw up. I do it twice, and think about doing it a dozen times more. I should go run, but I dive into the shower. It's almost 10 when I get out. I'm operating on sheer instinct, packing my bad, getting down to breakfast, downing a large orange juice, and meeting my crew for the flight home. I'm flying this segment, and if I were a passenger, I'd be scared shitless right now.
     
     
Routine saves me. All flying today is checklists. You start at the top, run down them, and you'll get where you're going in one piece. For a