Omar strides into the lobby, spotting me on the couch with room temperature lemonade from the welcome desk. I have a hoodie on which I had hoped would provide more cover than this.

"Hey," he stops, glancing at the other guests sitting around the flatscreen mounted on the brick wall. Not that anyone's watching the game anyway.

I pluck out my earphones, "Hey."

There are no spare seats so he's awkwardly positioned by the console, blocking everyone's route out of this lobby. He rubs his hands for warmth before pushing them into his pockets.

"Coming from somewhere?" I ask, my eyes downcast on the earphone case in my hands.

"Took a walk around the neighborhood," he replies. "What about you?"

"Just having some free lemonade," I hold the cup up for him to see. "There's more at the welcome desk, if you want some."

"I'm good, don't really like lemonade."

I blow air out my nose. I don't necessarily like lemonade either but it was there, free to take. So I figured, why not?

"Listening to anything good?" he asks, with a casual nod to the black box in my hand.

"You're asking me what I'm listening to?"

"Yeah. Unless it's some weird obscure shit," he answers. "Then you don't have to tell me."

I hold up my screen for him to read the Spotify song himself. He lowers his head to read it and then nods, "Huh, the midnight. I've never heard of them."

"They might be too obscure for you."

"Listen, they're serving dinner upstairs in the restaurant. I'm going to eat before we leave tonight, do you wanna join?" Omar asks, giving room for one of the guests to walk out.

I hesitate, glancing at the ugly clock by the entrance. It's still early but I don't think we'll get the chance to get anything after midnight.

"Sure, I'll have a look at their menu," I say, unfolding my legs to stand up.

   The restaurant looks nothing like what the rest of the hotel looks like downstairs. With dark ebony tables and rounded red velvet sofas, it's momentarily distracting.

By the hallway, there's a black board with their specials written in chalk. I read it before we walk in and choose a table. We sit opposite each other and while we wait for our food, I look around the room. At a table, not far from us, is a woman with an afro and nose piercing, accompanied by three small children.

  Then at the community table, sits a middle aged man alone with bulky black glasses that make his eyes look small and his grey eyebrows crooked. I tear my eyes away from him just as he directs his sullen glare towards me. I don't blame him, I'm the one who was caught staring.

"So," Omar says, arms crossed over his stomach. "Let me guess."

"What?" I straighten up.

"Single child, little or no family maybe, and working through college?" he concludes.

"Playing a guessing game?"

"Well, I don't know you Liberty so it's only fair I get to guess at this stage."

I'm quiet for a moment, pulling my thoughts together. Meanwhile, from the other table, I can hear the children's conversation word to word.

   "I am a single child but  I have a family. I have my mom."

"Hmm, and work?"

"I work but it doesn't look like I'll be going to college any time soon," I tell him, crossing my arms. "I guess I saved myself a shit ton of money."

"Looks like it."

"I'm guessing you're a student," I break a piece off the bread from the basket.

"What makes you think that?" he asks.

"I don't know, just that you brought it up," I say while chewing.

"Well, you're wrong about that."

"Look at us, a couple of uneducated low-lifes. You know, society doesn't like people who don't graduate college," I swallow the ball of bread. My stomach sends out a whale call which Omar doesn't seem to catch.

  "Like I care what society likes," his expressions darken a little.

"So he's a rebel, too," I say, mockingly.

"If I remember correctly, I wasn't the anarchist swinging a baseball bat," he bounces back.

  This time, I'm the one to scowl.  "So, what about you? Let me guess, little or no family and you haven't always lived in Georgia."

"Not Southern enough for you?" he mocks back with a subtle twang.

"Well maybe not outside Atlanta," I shake my head in disbelief. "But I'm right, aren't I? You've lived some place else."

"I hate to break it to you but I have lived in the state of Georgia my whole life."

"But you're correct about my family," he offers an insincere smile, one that doesn't reach his eyes at all. They're dark and empty, leaving little room to read them.

"Where did you think I lived?" he deadpans.

"I don't know," I twiddle my thumbs under the desk. "Maybe New York or something."

He shakes his head, a little amused. "I wonder what gave you that idea."

"No clue," I tell him. "But anyway, was I right about your family?"

"Kind of, yeah," he clears his throat.

"What does that mean?"

"I gotta keep some things mysterious, don't I? Otherwise, it won't be fun anymore."

"I literally guessed two things, same as you."

"Fine," he pauses. "I got a small family."

"They live close to Atlanta?" I ask him.

He looks thoughtful for a moment, picky over his next words. "Not far."

We continue the game after the waiter brings over our plates. I curl the pasta around my fork.

"You worked for the newsletter or something sad like the math club," he says, before biting into his food.

"I was in math club," I reveal. "But I didn't stay long."

"Wow, how was that then?"

"Exactly how you'd think it would be," I reply. "You don't look like someone who was part of a club. Were you into sports?"

He shakes his head, "Occasionally."

"Huh, then what were you into?"

"I liked music, liked playing my guitar," he says.

"An old hobby?"

"You could say that."

"Do you still know how to play?"

"Yeah."

"I always wanted to learn an instrument but I never stuck to it," I tell him.

"What instrument would you have picked?" he asks me.

"I guess guitar," I say, pensively. "It's too late though. Maybe next time, huh?"

He presses his lips together, sympathetically. "If you want, I can give you a lesson once we're back."

"Out of your precious time? You should spend it with your family."

"I wouldn't mind," he says. "I think you deserve to get to play at least one song in this life, don't you think?"

"I might take you up on that," I put my fork down.

"Alright."

"You know, this could be the last time I sit in a restaurant and I just wouldn't know."

"You've probably lived through more lasts than you realize. It's just the stag mail has made you more conscious of it."

I stir my spaghetti, watching the steam rise from where the fork goes in.

"It sucks."

"And that's why we're here," he replies. "To try and figure out why this is being done to us."

After that, we eat in silence. I listen to conversations from around me as some kind of distraction from my own thoughts. When we're almost done, Omar's phone on the table lights up with a message from Ben.

"Ben's awake," he tells me. "I'm letting him know where we are."

"Okay," I take a sip of water. I guess we have to wait for him to get here now.

And sure enough, just over ten minutes later, Ben walks into the restaurant and pulls out a chair next to Omar. His eyes and cheeks are puffy, probably from his nap. He looks at our plates before picking up a menu from the empty table beside us.

"Hey sleeping beauty," Omar says, earning himself an eye roll from Ben who is still, relatively quiet.

"My brother's not answering my calls," Ben says after placing his order.

  "Maybe he's busy," Omar says, wiping his hands with the cream napkin.

"It's been over twenty-four hours."

"Maybe he's just that busy," Omar says, easily.

  "You could try his socials," I intervene. "He could have lost his phone or something."

"None of his accounts have been active," Ben explains. "He's a teenager. No teenager goes without their phone for this long."

  "Relax, your brother's fine. He'll pop up and it'll be for some really stupid reason," Omar tells him.

"I hate to agree with him but it's not been that long. If you're still worried, try texting your parents to check in on him."

He nods and the conversation falls flat after that. I finish my food while Omar is on his phone. Ben stares at the wall, his eyes slightly sunken in this bad lighting.

    "Did you text your parents?" I ask, swallowing my last bite.

"He's not with my parents," Ben says.

"Where is he then?" this peaks Omar's interest.

"With his adoptive family," he says after some deliberation.

   I glance at Omar reflexively, as if to check if his expressions matched mine. The initial shock dissipates and I mask my face to show no emotion. Ben clears his throat, clearly uneasy by this revelation.

"Then text them," Omar is the first to speak after the slight pause.

   "Yeah," he mumbles. "I will, after dinner."

Omar meets my gaze one more time before I watch the family of four exit the restaurant, the woman's boots clicking against the shiny floor. We keep Ben company while he finishes his food and return to our rooms, with the plan of meeting downstairs at midnight.

  I walk out of the elevator and give a slow wave back at Ben and Omar in the elevator. We've done this before, we're practically a group of bandits at this point.

So why do I feel so nervous about tonight?