On their seventh day in Hawaii, Carolyn listened to the tour guide describe a scorched black vista as beautiful. Carolyn nodded, shading her glasses, taking in the dead sticks that once were trees. “It reminds me of pictures of World War One,” she whispered to her husband. Trev laughed through crooked teeth and went on ahead, down a slanted path that ended in a deep black crater forty feet below them.

“Magma,” said the tour guide—a tall twenty-something Hawaiian with hair down to his navel and a camo green tank top worn so thin it was practically translucent—“is molten rock that’s still in the ground. It isn’t called lava until it comes to the surface.”

People on couch
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