One Midnight (ONC 2024) ✔️

Chapter Three- Dancing with a Thief

We're adrift in the endless sea of people, pulled back and forth by the constant changing of the tides, the unadulterated reek of alcohol enveloping us as we attempt to maneuver around people who stumble over themselves.

Given the stranger's harrowing predicament, I cannot help but think to myself about what I would do if I had lost my flute. It did not cost 80,000 dollars like his, but I'm still paying off my Powell flute and I purchased it when I started my master's at Loyola. I think of the endless hours I spent in the Loyola practice rooms, just myself and the tiny soundproof rooms, hearing all the flaws in my playing, determined to be the best among the flute players.

I'm broken out of my thoughts when something hits against my side. I turn to look at the people laughing at me and the stranger. They throw Mardi Gras beads in our direction.

"Here ya go," one girl says. "Oh, these poor people didn't catch any beads. Here's some extra for you."

I throw back the beads and shout, "I already have enough beads to open a Walmart sized store!"

We leave the group of people to stumble over the thrown beads and walk away from them, relief coursing through me as I don't feel beads being thrown at me again.

"Welcome to New Orleans," I say to the stranger.

He smiles but does not face me. "It's not my first time here, you know. My first Mardi Gras, though. People are serious about those beads."

"Can I ask you a random question?" I look over at him, changing the topic of our conversation.

The stranger doesn't even seem to notice my question. Instead, he is scrutinizing everyone's hands and bags, searching high and low for his beloved wind instrument. He speeds up his pace and almost gets ahead of me, but then comes to a halt and turns to face me.

"I'm sorry, but I tried to ask you a question earlier," I say, louder this time.

He stops and lowers his shoulders into a shrug. "I apologize. What was your question?"

"Why was there a chamber orchestra in the middle of Jackson Square today? I mean, on a lazy, regular day, it's not unheard of."

"Scheduling," he says. "We did not realize it was Mardi Gras when we booked a slot in the square. We're from Spain."

"Well, it was a nice refreshment. Though it was a little hard to hear with all that jazz in the streets. You all sounded great. You know, like I said earlier, I play the flute, too."

He does not seem to hear me now, as he is once again carried away with his worry. He looks everywhere again, his face more pained with every passing second. I realize now that the outcome of us actually finding his instrument looks grim, but I think of endless ways to cheer him up, despite the odds. Thoughts run through my mind like a rolling train as we dash through the endless crowd. It is our obstacle — every second the multitude impedes us is sacred, precious time lost.

"We'll find it," I say with reassurance. "The best place for us to go, just in case, is the French Market."

"Why there?" the stranger asks, looking over at me. "It's closed, as far as I know."

"Well," I say, shrugging. "It's our best bet. I have a gut feeling, I don't know. A hunch. Why don't we try there? Can you tell me exactly where you were and what happened before you realized your flute was gone?"

"I was talking to Cristina when I set my flute on my chair for only a minute, and before I knew it, it was gone."

"Who is Cristina?" I ask. "Do you think she could help us?"