Page 114 of Hawaii Can Suck It

Pono’s expression tightens. “Some found other jobs. Some left the island entirely—housing prices being what they are. You can’t keep people waiting on a ‘maybe someday’ promise.”

“We feel responsible for them,” Hina adds. “These people trusted us with their livelihoods.”

“But you aren’t helping anyone if you drown while trying to save them,” Pono says with the resignation of somebody who’s had this argument with himself many times.

My throat constricts. I have three hundred employees who depend on my channel’s success. It’s why I keep churning out the same content, why I agreed to marry Astrid, why I’m going along with this fake girlfriend plan. At least I still have a platform.

What would I do if I lost everything overnight? Would I have this same dignity? This same concern for others?

Cam continues asking questions—perfect questions that unlock layers of the Akanas’ story that I wouldn’t have thought to explore. The endless insurance paperwork. The community support that materializes in surprising ways. The challenge of maintaining hope.

I watch, mesmerized, as she builds trust with this family. She understands when to push and when to pull back. When to let emotion fill the space and when to redirect to facts. She’s not just collecting soundbites—she’s weaving together the complex reality of what it means to be a family that loses it all and keeps going.

This is Cam in her element, and she’s fucking magnificent.

How badass would my content be if I’d recognized her talent earlier? If I’d seen her as more than “camera girl?”Jesus, am I as bad as Gordon?

“Why do you do all those crazy stunts?” Keoni suddenly asks me, jolting me from my thoughts.

The question catches me off guard. “Uh… views, I guess. People like watching crazy stuff.”

“No, but, um, why? Aren’t you scared you’ll die?” His eyes are wide, genuinely curious.

I laugh, running a hand through my hair. “Sometimes. That’s part of the rush—doing things that scare you.”

“Did you always want to be a YouTuber?”

I glance at Cam, who’s studying me with undisguised interest. Great. An audience for my existential crisis.

“No. It started with my best friend, Blaze, and me goofing around. Then this one video went viral, and suddenly people wanted more. Bigger stunts. Wilder pranks.” I shrug. “Before I knew it, I was selling shirts, releasing energy drinks, and all this crazy stuff. Now, it’s this big company and I have all these people who work for me. Definitely not what I expected.”

“Do you still like it?”

I hesitate, acutely aware of how absurd my career seems in this context—in this tiny prefab unit where a family is fighting to rebuild a life that actually matters.

“I mean, I used to be obsessed with it,” I say finally, the unfiltered truth slipping out. “Now… I don’t know. Half the time it feels as if I’m just filming stuff to remind people I exist.”

Keoni considers this with surprising seriousness. “You know what would be really cool? If you used your channel to help people. Like, you have millions of followers, right? Imagine if they all did something small to help. That would be massive.”

“Keoni,” Hina warns gently, shooting me an apologetic look.

“It’s okay,” I assure her.

“Can you help us?” Keoni asks directly, his eyes full of unmistakable hope that makes my stomach drop, like I stepped off a ledge I didn’t see coming.

The question paralyzes me.

Can I help? I have money, sure. I could write a check right now to cover their rebuilding costs. But that’s a single family, and there are so many others. Plus, I can’t fix all the bureaucracy and red tape that keeps them stuck in this position.

And my platform? Millions of followers who watch me do dumb shit for laughs. Would they care about the struggles of Lahaina? I can’t see them donating to a GoFundMe. They’d just scroll past to the next viral challenge.

My entire brand is built on superficial entertainment. My audience comes for the adrenaline, the pranks, the stunts—not real issues requiring actual attention spans.

I’m drowning in my questions when Cam speaks up.

“We’re going to do what we can to make sure people hear your story,” she says with quiet conviction. “That’s the first step—breaking through the noise, making sure you’re not forgotten.”

The certainty in her words both impresses and intimidates me. She knows exactly what to say, exactly what matters. Meanwhile, I’m still trying to figure out if anything I’ve ever made has mattered at all.

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