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I shrug. “I kind of figured you just used some service that provides you a replacement robot when the last one wears out. Stick up her ass, heavily focused on her manicure.”

I turn, no longer interested in the stupid view. Cliffs, water, whatever. I’ve seen it.

“I’m not on Tinder,” he says quietly from behind me. “I’d barely have time to date in Somalia even if it was possible.”

And my shoulders settle, as if it should make a difference when it doesn’t.

It can’t.

* * *

When we reach Hanakapiai Beach, we are told to unbuckle our packs so we don’t get swept away crossing the stream. I question the judgment of doing anything where getting swept away is a distinct possibility, but it’s too late to back out of it now.

We go across, with Josh right at my back, his hand on my shoulder. It’s equal parts annoying and sweet. We scramble up the other side of the creek bank, and Josh grins at me. He’s grown happier, less burdened by the world, with every mile we set between ourselves and the start.

“You love this,” I accuse.

He smiles wider. “I’m too tired to worry about anything right now,” he suggests, buckling my pack for me.

I wish I knew what it would take to make him this free, this happy and unburdened, all the time. I swear, if it was within my power, I’d give it to him.

We follow Kai through a small valley, and then the real climbing begins. We ascend…and we continue to ascend. And then we ascend some more. There are no real views to speak of, and the sweat pouring down my face would obscure them anyway.

We stop at what we’re told is the highest point on the trail—Space Rock, 700 feet above sea level. We have only completed three and a half miles out of eleven. My ice water is gone, my back hurts, and I sort of wish we’d signed on for the campsite at the halfway point.

After another mile, we descend into the Hanakoa Valley, where Beth and Jim would have stopped to camp for the night had they come. We cross one last stream and then I dump my backpack and collapse in the grass, stretching my arms overhead. “Go without me. I’ll still be here when you get back tomorrow.”

Josh lies beside me. “Nah, I’m good right here. What the hell was my mother thinking?” And then we both laugh, because there’s literally no way Beth and Jim could have made it this far.

“I love your mom,” I tell him.

“Yeah,” he says after a moment, sounding wistful. “Me too. But I’m really starting to question her judgment.”

Lunch is laid out. We’ve grabbed sandwiches and chips just as Chris arrives with the campers who’ll be staying here tonight.

“You know who you sort of look like?” says one of them. “That singer.” She turns to her husband. “What’s her name? You know…Naked?” She does the shimmy from the video, the ridiculous, suggestive shimmy that is now practically synonymous with my name.

I hate my life sometimes.

“Drew Wilson,” he says, tilting his head to peer at my face. “Holy shit, you do! I mean, she’s always got the whorish makeup thing going on, but your eyes are exactly like hers.”

Josh’s nostrils flare in irritation. “Lina,” he says, “come sit in the shade.”

I follow him, grateful to get away. His jaw is locked tight as he takes a seat in the grass. “What’s wrong?” I ask.

“Those two,” he says, blowing out a breath. “I don’t know how you stand that shit.”

I laugh a little unhappily. “I’m a living parody,” I tell him. “I’m used to it by now. And that wasn’t even bad. That dude didn’t know it was me. You wouldn’t believe the number of people who do know and still say it.”

“I don’t understand,” he replies. “Davis has you singing shit you hate. You don’t get to write your own music anymore and you have nothing to yourself. Like…what could possibly be the benefit of continuing to do it?”

I reach for a few blades of grass beside my hand and give them a hard tug. They break off but don’t pull from the root. “Everyone says I’m like my dad,” I tell him, with a hitch of my shoulder. “And my dad failed. My dad died this pathetic…joke. It’s not how I want my story to end, and now I can’t go backward. I either keep succeeding or I’m a pathetic joke.”

“I feel like there might be a third option in there, somewhere,” he says.

“That’s what everyone who dies a pathetic joke tells themselves.”

Kai crosses the field and crouches before us. “We’ve still got six miles left. I can’t keep waiting for your brother,” he tells Josh, who then glances at me.