"I remember that story you told us about the leper who wouldn't go to the colony."
"Koolau," Joe said. "He defeated the British Navy. They couldn't get him. He warned them, too. One sick guy with a rifle against marines and cannon—he killed, what? . . . three of them before they gave up? He wasn't doing anything, just he and his lover in the valley."
"Yeah," Max said.
"One of the great love stories," Joe said. "Made for Hollywood. She stayed with him until he died and never caught leprosy. A few years later, she climbed back over the pali and started all over again, lived a long life. If I were a drinking man, I'd propose a toast to her—and all women like her."
"Women," Max said, just like a grown up, holding out his coffee mug.
They clinked mugs.
"So, what next?" Joe asked.
"I've been thinking . . . look at this." Max reached into his pocket and pulled out a little wooden box, deep red with a dramatic black grain. He removed a rubber band, placed the box on the table, and lifted off the top. The box was rectangular with an oval center; a thin piece of stone lay in the oval, tawny and flaked. "It's an arrowhead. Found it in Vermont." Joe put the arrowhead in his palm and looked at the indentations near the base and at the rounded but definite point. The slight weight of it shocked him. Whoever made it had felt the same weight; it had been in his or her palm as well.
"I carried it around in my wallet, and then when I was in New Zealand I made the box out of Kauri wood."
"Beautiful wood," Joe said. "The oval is perfect for the arrowhead."
Max nodded. "I'm going to make things," he said. "That's what I want to do. Furniture, maybe."