He began to sob, his face rapidly turning from blue back to a flushed, healthy pink.

I sank back onto my knees, my own legs trembling against the cold floor.

His mother threw herself forward, scooping her son into her arms and weeping aloud.

The father fell to his knees beside them, burying his face in his hands.

I wiped a smear of saliva from my forearm with a paper napkin from a nearby table.

My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird.

I looked up to find James Hendricks staring at me from our table.

His face was pale, his mouth slightly open in an expression of intense distaste.

He looked at the puddle on the floor, then at my stained sleeve.

He did not move to help me up.

He did not ask if I was alright.

He simply reached for his coat on the back of his chair.

“I think we are done here,” James said, his voice flat and thin.

He threw a hundred-dollar bill onto the table and walked out of Whitaker’s Restaurant without looking back.