"At three o'clock," Mo said. She took a picture of the road and one of an orange cat curled on an old sofa next to the table.
"I had a cat like that once—'Jeremy,'" Joe said.
She turned and took one of him. "Joe Burke, at the end of the road," she offered in explanation.
"A long way from where I started."
"You were from Woodstock, right?" Joe nodded. "Were you at the festival?"
"No. I was running a laundromat that year. I leased it from an old friend whose wife was sick of cleaning it. I couldn't get away. It was no big deal. There had been little festivals for years—'Soundouts,' we called them—music all night, sleep in a field. I had no idea it was going to be so huge. And anyway, it wasn't actually in Woodstock; it was about forty miles away. Did you go?"
"I couldn't," Mo said. "I was in Vienna in a convent school. My father was on sabbatical. It was awful. My sister Beth was already in college. I wish I could have heard Jimi Hendrix's Star Spangled Banner."
"A major moment," Joe said. "When Hendrix died, the hot radio station in Honolulu scheduled that piece for twelve noon. They asked everyone to open their windows and crank up the volume. That was when I was driving a cab; you could hear Hendrix blasting all over the city."
Mo looked at her watch again. "It's that time, Joe."
"Damn shame," he said. They said goodbye to the cat, and Mo drove them back to Lihue where Joe had no trouble changing his flight.