Against his family’s concerns, he’d majored in photography. Shooting photos in New York had been sufficient exercise, but the mental images of Hawai‘i were more artistically pleasing, the perfect album always there to page through when homesick.
He’d prove photography practical. Today he ventured off and up from the ‘Aiea Loop Trail, would take photos of his island home from the ridge-line.
Toeing the hard, white object, he figured it was bone. Stories of lost hikers came to mind.
Not imagining he might be tampering with a potential crime scene, Hank dug with his hands, moving leaves and dirt aside.