Ciaran wiped his hands over his face and tugged at the collar of his shirt as he waited for Keats to finish his business at a little ma and pa shop on the outskirts of New Orleans. They had been traveling for days now after being delayed for weeks back in their home city. Things had gone more than a little sideways as usual but it hadn't stopped them from making good on their journey down south. 

The letters from his uncle lay in a creased and yellowed folder, each one laying out the clues to his past. Ciaran wasn't sure what lay in their future though as each clue was cryptic and could mean anything from another clue to a big fat fuck you. It was a shot in the dark and then some going down to New Orleans like this, trying to unearth a past that seemed to want to be forgotten. The worst thing wasn't knowing what they were doing, it was not knowing who they were looking for. Ciaran's uncle had left clues, names, little bits of information that he and Keats had pored over in the past few weeks as they outlined a plan. 

Get a car, get money, give information only to those who needed to know where they were going and what they were doing, and then drive from Chicago to New Orleans. There they would start, trying to track down the mystery that unfolded itself inside the letters that his uncle had stuffed under the floorboards of the barn. 

Keats returned holding a bag of fresh made doughnuts that smelled of nutmeg, grinning as he slid into the passenger seat. The car rumbled to life and Ciaran pulled back onto the road, reaching for one of the still warm sweet treats as the road sign pointed its way to the heart of Louisiana. "You ready to find out the ties between your family and mine?" He asked through a mouthful of doughnut.  

Keats chewed the donut thoughtfully. He'd been happy to accompany Ciaran on his trip, but his interest was particularly piqued when he realized he had a personal stake here as well. Keats didn't have much free time for personal business anymore- not with his responsibilities in Chicago. But every time he was in his home city of New York he'd spent a few hours digging through old records. A paper trail from the orphanage he'd grown up in had led to baptism records in a church, which had led to death records and tax records and all sorts of false clues. But he'd been able to isolate a few names that traced back to New Orleans. He and Ciaran had tried several clues so far, but had only minor successes- the most interesting of which presented the names both Ciaran and Keats's ancestors on some sort of list, although the context of the torn page had been missing. The next clue, however, was the best yet.

Grinning, he offered Ciaran a donut and glanced at the sun as it moved through sky.