“Police coming. Get out of restaurant!” Mr. Chan stomped his feet like a bratty child, blood pitter-pattering on the rug beneath him. He pocketed the phone, rushed forward, and grabbed the man’s shoulder with his good hand. Juan could only imagine that was how his hand got bit in the first place. Mr. Chan bared his teeth as he tried tugging the man away from the buffet, looked like a flea trying to move a mountain.

Juan snapped out of his trance and jumped forward to help his boss. As he rounded on the fat man, Mr. Chan shot him a look of pure fire as if it were all Juan’s fault. Juan grabbed the man’s other shoulder and pulled. As his hands gripped, his fingers sunk into the soft, fatty flesh. The skin was slick with sweat and what appeared to be grease. Spots of dried blood speckled the skin and clothing here and there. The smell wafting from the bulbous body nearly induced a gag, but Juan held his breath and pulled, the cords in his neck ready to tear as he strained. He looked over at his cousin who hadn’t moved an inch, still staring at the food in a dream-like wonder.

“Manuel, help me.” Juan noticed that the other employees had disappeared back into the kitchen, not a single one of them in sight. “Manuel!”

His cousin blinked rapidly, glanced at Juan, and ran over. He took hold of the man’s neck, his feet dangling off the ground for a second, then with all three of them pulling, they finally moved him. The fat man stumbled backward, pulled the metal dish—licked clean—from the buffet; it clanked to the floor. The trays where his hands were massaging the food fell and splattered the rug. Manuel barely avoided being crushed as the man slammed on his back.

The fat man grunted, his face a mess of color. He rolled back and forth like an overturned beetle. “More food…still hungry. It…it hurts.” As he spoke, his tongue moved in and out, licking the sauce from his face. His breathing was wet and sloppy.

Sickness swelled in Juan’s stomach and he backed away. The back of his thighs collided with a table, and he turned to find a couple, as fat as the fallen man, stuffing food into their mouths and staring up at Juan with blank, lost eyes. The woman rolled a fried chicken wing over her bottom teeth, stripping the meat and swallowing without chewing.

What is going on in here?

Juan shot a look at Mr. Chan, whose mouth was curved downward, eyes shifting all around at the diners in his restaurant. Juan could see panic in his eyes as they darted here and there. The little man held his hand to his chest and winced again. He looked at Juan, and for the first time, they shared a moment. It was the first time the Chinaman didn’t look at him like a rat caught in a trap, but as an equal. Mr. Chan, out of all the people there, including Manuel, was the only other one that seemed perplexed by what was going on around him. Juan was glad to see that look because, for a moment, he thought maybe America was a giant pig trough. That maybe this is just how these people eat.