Brandon chattered on mindlessly for nearly the whole five hours, constantly hitting his knee caps against the dashboard. I knew it was his way of dealing with the stress, so I didn’t stop him. Nobody else seemed interested in saying anything anyway. I was mostly just glad I didn’t have to see Trent’s face as he staunchly ignored me. We pulled up into the parking lot of a popular hostel on the outskirts of Atlanta that thankfully looked very much like the pictures I had seen online—it was a bright, white double-gallery house with an iron fence around it and a large yard. I was kind of nervous about being there (Sierra had recently made me watch the horror movie, Hostel), but I knew the fear was irrational. Plus, it was a great way to meet new people who could potentially be fans, and it was cheap. Not that I really cared about either of those things in that moment. But I could try. Sierra was waiting for us in the repurposed living room of the hostel, sitting in an over-stuffed chair with a white, fluffy cat in her lap.
