Wailea opened her eyes and stretched her long, bronze arms until her fingertips scraped the walls of her family’s cave. With a sharp intake of breath, she swallowed the cool wind and forecast the day’s weather. Cool with intermittent showers from lazy clouds. She crawled over her younger brother to the mouth of the cave and looked west toward the island inhabited by the tribe known simply as Atin. She spied dark trunks moving to and fro like trees without roots. The mysterious people of Atin routinely spent the day walking to and from the sea shore for inexplicable reasons. The other tribes said they lacked an Atin-tion span.
