When I was eight we went to Las Vegas for my brother Michael's

Host: The hotel lobby still smelled of perfume and spilled champagne from the night before. The lights overhead were too bright for morning, and the slot machines in the far corner flashed like restless ghosts that had forgotten how to sleep. Outside, the Las Vegas sun was rising — cruel, golden, and unapologetic — burning through the haze of cigarette smoke and regret.

At a corner table near the window, Jack sat, his suit jacket crumpled over the chair, eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses. Across from him, Jeeny stirred her coffee, her hair catching the morning light, her smile faint but knowing — the kind that holds stories.

A faint music drifted from the casino floor — half jazz, half exhaustion.

Jeeny: “Spencer Matthews once said, ‘When I was eight, we went to Las Vegas for my brother Michael’s 21st birthday, and my bedtime was pushed back quite late. I was always waking up as everyone was rolling in from their night out. It was an eye-opener.’”

Jack: (chuckles) “An eye-opener? Yeah, I bet it was. Vegas’ll do that to you — no matter what age you are.”

Jeeny: “He was just a kid though, Jack. Imagine that — watching adults come back at dawn, their faces tired, makeup smudged, laughter hollow. Seeing the world stripped of its shine for the first time.”

Jack: (leans back, grinning faintly) “You mean seeing the truth. Every kid needs that moment. You grow up thinking the world’s clean, orderly — then one night you see it drunk, messy, honest. That’s when the illusion dies.”

Host: The sunlight slanted across the table, illuminating the steam rising from their cups. Jeeny’s fingers traced circles in the condensation, her expression thoughtful, her voice soft but edged with conviction.

Jeeny: “You call it truth, I call it loss. Childhood should be sacred — untouched by the world’s hangovers. There’s a kind of beauty in not knowing yet how broken things can be.”

Jack: “Ignorance isn’t beauty, Jeeny. It’s blindness. The sooner you see what people are really like, the sooner you learn how to survive them.”

Jeeny: “Or the sooner you stop believing in goodness altogether.”

Host: A group of tourists stumbled through the lobby, still in last night’s clothes, laughing, their voices echoing like a reminder of the chaos that never truly sleeps here. Jack’s eyes followed them briefly — not with judgment, but with something heavier: recognition.

Jack: “You think innocence protects anyone? Look around. Vegas is the perfect teacher. It shows you everything — greed, lust, loneliness — all packaged in neon. The city doesn’t lie, it just stops pretending.”

Jeeny: (looks out the window, watching a janitor sweep glitter from the steps) “But when you show that to a child, something dies too early. There’s a kind of heartbreak in realizing the world isn’t kind. I think Spencer’s story isn’t about Vegas. It’s about that first heartbreak — the one that teaches you people aren’t who you thought they were.”

Jack: (nods slowly) “Maybe. But heartbreak builds armor. And armor keeps you alive.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Armor keeps you lonely.”

Host: The casino doors opened, letting in a gust of dry desert air, carrying with it the faint scent of sun-baked pavement and yesterday’s perfume. The slot machines began their mechanical singing again — hollow and endless.

Jack: “You ever had your own Vegas moment?”

Jeeny: (pauses, eyes far away) “Yes. Not in Vegas. I was twelve. I found out my parents weren’t as in love as I’d believed. I walked past their door late one night — heard words that didn’t fit the fairy tale. It changed something in me. It’s strange, isn’t it? How knowledge can feel like theft.”

Jack: (quietly) “Yeah. You don’t choose when the world grows teeth.”

Jeeny: “And once you see them, you can’t unsee. That’s what Spencer meant, I think — ‘It was an eye-opener.’ Not excitement. Realization.”

Jack: “Realization that adults don’t have it figured out — they’re just older kids with bigger appetites.”

Jeeny: (smiles sadly) “Exactly.”

Host: The morning crowd began to trickle in — dealers, maids, waiters, managers — the people who make the illusion run. Their faces were pale, their steps slow, their smiles professional. The city was putting its mask back on.

Jack: “So what then? You’d rather live in the dark? Keep believing the world’s pure?”

Jeeny: “No. But I think we should let people discover the world gently. Let them lose their innocence in pieces, not all at once. Vegas throws you into the deep end.”

Jack: (grins) “And teaches you to swim fast.”

Jeeny: “Or drowns you before you even realize you’re underwater.”

Host: A moment of silence hung between them — one filled with the low hum of the air conditioner and the distant clatter of poker chips.

Jack: “You talk like you’ve never wanted to see behind the curtain.”

Jeeny: “Of course I have. Curiosity’s human. But understanding should come with guidance, not shock. When a child sees too much, they start mimicking the brokenness they don’t yet understand.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s what growing up is — mimicking the broken until you figure out your own version of whole.”

Jeeny: (softly) “Maybe. But I still think the first glimpse of imperfection shapes how we love, how we trust. Vegas just happens to be a mirror — a bright, seductive, unforgiving mirror.”

Host: The sunlight now flooded the lobby, the night’s sins slowly evaporating under its glare. A cleaner scrubbed the marble floors, the sound sharp and rhythmic, like erasing the evidence of joy gone sour.

Jack: “You know, when I first came here, I thought Vegas was paradise. Freedom, power, money — the American dream with better lighting.”

Jeeny: “And now?”

Jack: “Now I think it’s a painting — beautiful from a distance, but up close, it’s just cracks and chaos.”

Jeeny: “You sound nostalgic.”

Jack: (smiles) “Maybe I am. You can’t hate something that taught you who you are.”

Jeeny: “Even if it taught you through loss?”

Jack: “Especially then.”

Host: The radio behind the counter switched to a slow, melancholic melody. The bartender wiped glasses with mechanical focus, as if polishing away yesterday. Jeeny finished her coffee, her reflection catching in the window beside Jack’s — two faces, one weary, one wistful, both seeing more than they wanted to.

Jeeny: “You know, I think Spencer’s story is every child’s story. Vegas just happened to be his stage. For most of us, the stage is smaller — a kitchen, a living room, a family argument. But the awakening’s the same.”

Jack: “You wake up, and you can never sleep the same again.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: Jack’s hand rested on the table, the faintest tremor running through it. Jeeny noticed, said nothing. Outside, a busker began to play a slow tune on a trumpet, the notes drifting through the open door like smoke.

Jack: “So, what do we do with the knowledge once we’ve seen it?”

Jeeny: “We grow with it. We don’t let it turn us bitter. The world’s broken, yes — but so are we, and somehow we still shine. Maybe that’s the lesson.”

Jack: (nods slowly) “That even the cracks catch light.”

Host: The morning sun now blazed through the window, warming their faces. The last gamblers stumbled out of the casino, and a new crowd — bright, naïve, hopeful — was already stepping in.

The cycle continued, as it always did.

Jeeny stood, placing her hand on Jack’s shoulder — gentle, grounding.

Jeeny: “Come on. The night’s over. Let’s walk into the daylight for once.”

Jack: (smiles faintly) “You always make it sound like redemption.”

Jeeny: “It’s not redemption, Jack. It’s reality. Just... a brighter version of it.”

Host: They stepped outside, the heat of the desert morning hitting them full in the face. Behind them, Vegas still glittered, indifferent to who came or left — a city that promised dreams and delivered lessons.

And as they walked away, side by side, the reflection of the sun in the windows made them both look almost golden —
not innocent anymore, but awake — and somehow, that was its own kind of grace.