The typhoon swept into Okinawa, bringing rain and cannon-shot thunder, sheets of lightning almost low enough to sear the TV antennas on the blue-tiled roofs. The winds ripped branches from palm trees and left them flapping in the mud like broken-backed seagulls. Even the American helicopters on the nearby base were grounded and lashed down.

Jack pounded the streets as though he was trying to outrun the storm. He vaulted over puddles and slipped around corners. He clutched the photograph to his stomach and tried to keep it dry, but he could already feel the paper softening to the curve of his skin. He hoped his mother wasn't looking for his father. Not tonight. Not in this weather.

As Jack ran past Club Ricky and The Vegas Cabaret, the tuxedoed barkers poked their heads from the shelter of their doorways. They started to call out, then stopped mid-cry when they saw it was just a boy come by. His sneakers shattered the neon puddles into shards of color. A gust of wind sent the signboard for a strip club cartwheeling across his path.