My classmates were all getting their driver’s licenses. Like any of us had anywhere important to go. They drove cars their parents had gifted them, either a hand-me-down or a brand-new lease. I was the last without a provisional license and the only one without a car parked outside Shane Yamamoto’s house in Salt Lake, a neighborhood made up of military and upper-middle-class families and surrounded by Pearl Harbor, Fort Shafter, and Hickam Air Force Base. Shane’s family had just renovated the bottom floor of their two-story house for the tenants who were moving in soon. The empty apartment was a perfect excuse for another house party, our fifth as graduating seniors.