Nam Kun Han, or Robert N. K. Han, as he was known at the shipyard, woke up early that morning, at 5:11, according to the digital clock on the nightstand next to his bed. He was used to waking up early in the morning. That was his routine. Back home he usually woke up around 5, and given the three-hour time difference it was 2:11 at home. But it was 5:11 a.m. here. How could he have adjusted so quickly? He had arrived only yesterday. Wasn’t he supposed to have waken up later?

He lay in the bed for an...

The mud was the color of red clay, like the dirt of Wahiawā. Han bent down, with one arm cradling his wet M1 against his midsection under the poncho, and touched the mud, rubbing a bit between his fingers. It had a gritty feel and the color was of the earth from the fields where he grew up, that red dirt of Wahiawā that stained his khaki school pants and left an ochre patina on his bare feet that would not come off even after a long hot bath. How strange, he thought, that thousands of miles away he would...

I didn’t want to tell Dad about Uncle Nammi. Didn’t think he would like it if I told him what the nurse had told me, that he was going into the deep end, especially about using hisfeceslike finger paint. Didn’t want Dad to see Uncle Nammi in the state he was. But then I thought, my God, he better see his brother before … before it is too late. I know he and Uncle Nammi weren’t on good terms, for a long time. I heard that that they were actually pretty close when they were young. Auntie Callie...