Juan didn’t have a chance to introduce himself to his new boss before Mr. Chan started barking orders. Just another brown face to assign chores to. Juan could sense the little yellow bastard could barely tell the difference between him and the other illegal workers he’d hired. Manuel had warned him, but Juan couldn’t imagine it would be that obvious. But he shut his mouth and got to work.

It wasn’t long before the restaurant was buzzing and people were stacking their plates and stuffing their bellies. Juan had never seen so much jiggling before.

Before he could finish wiping down the table, another family placed their coats and purses on the chairs and speed-walked toward the buffet. Their bodies swayed under their too-tight clothes.

Juan ran his forearm over his face and sighed. As he looked around the restaurant, he was overcome with a feeling of helplessness. A stranger in an unknown land. A lone turd floating in a sea of fat. The Americans were huge. Not like the ones he’d seen at home, all smiles while they bought cheap liquor and medication and whores.

He pulled the photo from his pocket, then lifted his pants back to his waist. Manuel didn’t have an extra belt, and the worn-out jeans barely fit, the knees missing, only two belt loops left. The gray Dallas Cowboys t-shirt, some Goodwill hand-me-down that Manuel also had given him, was stiff and scraped against his skin. As he stared at the faces of his wife and daughter, he could have run right out of that restaurant and straight for the border.

“What you doing?” The sharp, high-pitched voice stabbed his eardrum like a poison-tipped needle. “Tables need cleaning. No time for break.”

Mr. Chan ripped the photo from Juan’s hand and squinted until his eyes looked completely shut.

“Lo siento...uh…sorry. I clean.” Juan’s eyes darted from Mr. Chan’s tight scowl to the photo in his yellow claw. The Chinaman’s face seemed to soften for a moment, just a fraction, then contorted back to a sneer. He tossed the picture to the table and walked back toward the line of awaiting diners. Juan snatched the photo back up, gave it one more look, fought back the tears, slid it gently into his pocket.

He pushed his cart, now crashing full with dishes, across the floor and toward the kitchen, passing countless blubbery bodies; the air vibrated with labored breaths. It smelled saucy and salty everywhere.

As the cart shoved through the double doors, he nearly ran over one of the cooks carrying a silver dish full of brown meat. Spirals of odiferous steam danced off it and were breathed in by the awaiting pigs. Tongues slithered over lips, eyes widened. The cook was nearly eaten alive as he set the dish at the buffet, then hurried back to the kitchen.

As Juan shoved his way in, the noise assaulting his ears went from the chaotic grumbling of the dining area to the sizzling of cooking meat and rapid Spanish shouting.