Fitz bypasses the cider packets the first time around. He's still got some scraps of food from the hotel's previous acts of generosity, and there are probably people who need them more — and, of course, they aren't actually food. About thirty minutes after the new arrivals have trickled out of the lobby, however, he wanders back downstairs with the intent of investigating what's been left in their wake.

Needless to say, he isn't expecting to catch a glimpse of a familiar figure near the front desk as he leaves the stairwell. Fitz stops in his tracks, grip going tight on the tablet in his hands.

He can't be absolutely positive, not until the man turns around. Still, he's startled enough to voice his assumption, voice equal parts uncertain and hopeful. "Trip?"