After a few questions about her life in the Valley which Koa did not answer, Greg Miller had fallen silent. The blue car containing Koa and her father drove through the town of Waimea, past it and into a newer development. Koa kept her arms wrapped tightly around her backpack. The car’s air conditioning made chicken skin pebble her arms and legs.

Modern homes were placed in cubes and rectangles on a hillside, all clean lines, smooth grass, and windows that reflected the sun like blank eyes. Koa imagined that from inside, those wide panes gave views of the surrounding ranch country and distant volcanoes.

Greg Miller pulled the car into a curved driveway beside a two-story house in brown wood and gray stone. He parked in front of closed garage doors. Koa looked outside to where native plants and crown flower bushes lined a flagstoned entry path leading to a porch with a couple of comfy-looking rattan chairs and a glass front door.

“As I said, your mother’s here and expecting us,” Greg Miller said. His hands gripped the steering wheel tightly, even though they'd stopped. "She’s a realtor and works from home most days."

Koa didn’t reply. Her heart hammered against her ribs as she opened the door of the vehicle and got out to stand on the warm concrete of the driveway. She walked slowly around the car as Greg Miller made a welcoming gesture toward the house. “Come inside. You must be hungry.”

The front door opened. A woman of about Koa’s height wearing a tropical print sheath dress stepped onto the lanai. As her gaze met Koa’s, her hands rose to cup her face; her hazel eyes went wide. Honey-blonde hair caught the sunlight as she left the porch and came toward them.

"Olivia?" Dominique Miller’s voice broke on the name. "Oh my God. It’s really you.”

Koa couldn't move; she was looking at her future self. Dominique Miller had her cheekbones, her build, her coloring. Memory so vivid it stole her breath swamped Koa: the voice that had just spoken was singing a song as she lifted Koa into her arms. Sunlight on that hair. The feel and scent of this woman’s skin.

She'd thought it was a dream.

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