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?"

"She is our clarinetist, and she already left," he says. "She has to be in Spain tomorrow afternoon. It is useless. Someone out there has my flute. Que voy a hacer?"

The French Market is almost in sight, and I help to the best of my capability to guide him there. If my hunch is right, the idiot who stole the stranger's flute might try to sell it there for whatever reason, so we will catch him en flagrante-delicto come hell or high water.

"I see someone," I say. "They're right by the entrance. Maybe they can help us."

The man nods. "Hopefully, they have seen something."

Without hesitation, the stranger makes a mad dash for the individual standing alone by the entrance, looking visibly upset as they scroll through their phone and put it to their ears. The French Market, which is closed until the morning, is completely dark. There aren't very many people in the area, save for the occasional trickle of crowds passing by.

"Yeah, yeah," I hear the guy say. He's slender, tall, kind of sus, dressed in a black t-shirt and jeans. There is something a little familiar about him, though. Something I can't quite place about him.

I hear him again. "I found something fantastic. It is absolutely great, man! The Boss'll love it. It's really expensive looking, too. Got to be at least worth a couple grand. Poor sucker didn't even see it coming either. Idiot."

Can it be? My throat turns dry. The words that this man is saying to the other individual on the phone are suspicious. I nudge the stranger.

"Did you hear what he said on the phone?" My heart races as I see the man ranting and raving about money.

"I did," the stranger closes his mouth, contracting the muscles in his jaw tight. "I'm going to talk to him. Now."

With one long stride, he taps the suspicious looking individual on the shoulder.

"What the hell do you want?" he asks, lowering his phone to neck level. "Can't you see I'm on the phone?"

"Mi flauta," the stranger says, desperation on his face. "La tienes?"

"What the freak kind of language are you speaking, dude? I don't have what you want. Get the hell out of my face."

"I think you have what he wants," I say, gulping hard, my blood pulsing in my veins.

Judging by the intensity of the suspect's gaze, I realize now that I don't know what kind of weapon this dude might have on him. In hindsight, we should have called the cops. Oh, God. I'm so stupid. I'm the walking definition of it.

The man laughs and brings his phone back to his ear. "I'll call you back later, man. Got people riding my case." He hangs up on the phone and under bated breath says, "Y'all must be high or something. Don't have what you're looking for. I was lying earlier. I speak a little Spanish, actually. Hombre, it's Mardi Gras in New Orleans. You can't just leave something like that lying around."

"Por favor, ayúdame. Alguien robó mi flauta," the stranger says, this time in Spanish.

At least I know por favor and flauta.

"No puedo señor. Look here." He spreads his arms out. There is a hint of rushed agitation in his tone of voice. "I'm with the police, staking the place out. Can't blow this cover. My partner and I have a lot riding on this, but where did you find out your flute was missing? I'll call it in."

"Jackson Square," I say before the stranger can. "He was playing in the chamber orchestra."

Recognition lights his eyes as he nods. "Right. One of my men was in Jackson Square. My suggestion to the both of you is to go to Flambeaux's Pawn Shop. It's right at the corner of—"

"No," I say, shaking my head. "There's no such place as Flambeaux's Pawn Shop. Who are you?"

"You're not a tourist," he says, arching a brow.

"Thought you could fool me with that little number? Guess again. I know this city in my sleep. He's lying." I face the flutist and put a light grasp on his arm. "This dude's not a cop. I think he has your flute."

The false police officer scoffs. "I don't have your stupid flute."

"Yes, you do." The stranger attempts to grab the bag, but the thief stops him and grabs his arm, twisting it.

"How'd you even know I was here?" the thief asks, taking a stumbling step back when the flutist releases himself from the tight grasp, and pushes him back, pinning him against the stucco wall of the entrance to the French Market.

I see the way the flutist looks at the thief, an intensity in his gaze that gives me a chill that cascades up and down my spine. It seems the moment lingers on for eons; him staring the thief down as he bares his teeth in a grimace.

"Give me my flute," he says, his voice rough like falling boulders. "I said," he pushes him back against the wall. "Return to me my flute. Ahora mismo."

The thief draws himself back and cowers under the flutist's gaze, almost as if whimpering like a puppy as he grabs the bag and takes the disassembled flute with trembling hands.

I have seen nothing like this before in my life. It is almost as if the man has complete power over the thief. Staring him down as if he were someone like a law enforcement official — if only just for that moment.

"Here," he says, slumping his shoulders blank faced as he gives the stranger his bag. "Take it. Just take it."

"Thank you," he says. "Now explain to me why you had the audacity to take my flute."

The thief frowns. "I needed the money. It looked expensive, so I took it."

The flutist arches a brow. "Money? There are legal ways to get money. Give me another reason," he steps forward, jabbing the flute into his diaphragm as the thief grunts from the momentary sting. "And it better be good."

He scrunches into a ball and looks at me, then the flutist. His expression is blank and emotionless as he runs a hand through his dark, curly hair.

"My d-daughter," he says breathlessly. "She has stage three blood cancer. The treatments are getting too expensive. I cannot pay her bills and Medicaid is refusing her life saving treatment. I can't even feed her enough. Every day she cannot get out of bed because she is too weak. Children's hospital took her in for her chemotherapy and now that will be more money. She is only fucking nine years old. No kid should have to go through that agony." He beats on his chest, looking down at the ground.

"Prove it to me," the other man says, jabbing the footjoint into his side.

Is he saying the truth to us? I feel a squeeze in my chest as my eyes sting from the first onset of tears, thinking of the little girl struggling to walk, the little girl in unimaginable agony. The little girl that thinks her father is working legal nine-to-five jobs just to make ends meet and pay hospital bills and not wrapping her mind around the thought of the end of her life. The one that wanted more than anything to fight for it like a warrior. That little girl was once me, laying in a hospital bed, hearing the endless beep, beep, beep of the machines that they hooked me up to. I remember thinking how badly I wanted to play the flute, just like my late mother did. Dad would play her recordings for me, the ones that she did before she died of the same cancer that was trying to take me away, too. And here I am now.

"Oh, you want proof?" he asks, letting out a painful sob as he drops to the ground. "Here's your proof."

The thief throws his phone into his hand, showing the endless photos of the beautiful little girl hooked up to oxygen, pale face, sunken eyes. It is like looking into a mirror and seeing myself there. The little girl with her bright dark honey-brown eyes carries with her so much pain, but there is also joy at seeing her father take the picture. It's a photo of her at her 9th birthday party, and she sits in front of her cake, happy tears rolling down her cheeks. There's something about her. That smile. That face. I knew someone who looked a lot like her.

"What is your name?" I ask, my breath hitching in my throat.

"Iñaki," he says, furrowing his brow in confusion. "Why are you asking my name?"

Some Spanish words and phrases for your ease:

1. Que voy a hacer? - What am I going to do?

2. Por favor, ayúdame. Alguien robó mi flauta- Please help me. Someone stole my flute.

3. No puedo señor- I can't sir

4. Ahora mismo- Right now

Thank you for reading! I hope you're enjoying the story.