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Sam Ito asked the admitting nurse at Hilo Medical Center if there might be a patient at the hospital, a soldier possibly in quarantine, named Mahoe.

Sergeant Noa Mahoe, he told her.

The nurse told Sam to wait a moment and walked away from her desk.

The soldiers came out of the elevator less than five minutes later. Both were young and built like football players. Or bouncers, Sam thought.

“Please come with us,” the taller and slightly wider of the two said.

“Where am I going?” Sam asked.

“Somewhere other than here,” the second soldier said.

Sam Ito looked up at both of them from his seat in the lobby.

“As the nurse over there probably told you, I’m a reporter,” Ito said, adding, “From the New York Times.”

“Wow,” the first one said flatly.

They stared down at him with blank expressions.

“I’m just telling you that I have rights,” Ito said.

“Not nearly as many rights as you had before our boss put martial law in place on this island,” the first one said. “Now, either you leave peacefully or we arrest you.”

“Arrest me on what grounds?”

“I’m sure General Rivers will think of something,” the second one said.

As the first soldier reached for him, Sam Ito put up his hands in surrender and stood.

“To be continued,” Ito said.

“I will look forward to it,” the second soldier said.

Sam Ito walked outside and got his phone out and called Imani Burgess at J. P. Brett’s hotel, the Lani, to tell her that he’d been unable to locate Sergeant Noa Mahoe. Neither one knew that they never would.

While Imani Burgess waited for their source, or at least someone they hoped would be a source, she sipped a white wine and thought about Dr. John MacGregor and her interview with him, if you could call it that.

She was certain that MacGregor wouldn’t have been as dismissive as he had been if she and Sam weren’t onto something. Imani just didn’t know what, exactly. She was convinced that Dr. John MacGregor was hiding something. She was also convinced the army was hiding something, and not just about the eruption.

Imani was about to check her phone again to see if Sam had called when a familiar woman slid onto the stool next to her and apologized for being late. Rachel Sherill, the botanist.

“You said in your email that you had a story to tell me,” Imani said.

Rachel Sherrill nodded and motioned to the bartender.

“A horror story,” she said, “about the United States Army.”

Just then the lights went out.