"My ring," he nearly whispers, "I can't find my ring. It's not in my pocket anymore."
"Ugh. That's it?!? You scared the crap out of me!" I say and walk back to the front desk to finish checking in.
When Nick and I get up to the room I tell him that it is ok. It's just a ring. It can be replaced. The important thing is that we're ok. It's a wedding ring, yes, but we can get another ring and it will mean the same thing. We made it through a metro ride through South Central L.A.... at night... with 2 suitcases, a duffel bag, a backpack, and a giant purse... dressed head to toe in blue. We had each other and that was all we needed.
This begs the question: what happened to the ring?
As we see it, 1 of 2 things happened: (1) Nick accidently gave it to the panhandler with the Sacagawea coins when we were transferring at the 7th Street/Metro Center station or (2) It fell out of Nick's pocket when he sat down halfway through the metro ride to Long Beach.
Either way, someone is now walking around Compton with a new gold tooth or sawed-off shotgun thanks to us and the friendly Compton pawn shop he took the ring to.
R.I.P. Man Ring, R.I.P.
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