Manuel stood back and clutched his hands into fists at his sides. His stomach heaved as he watched the fat man on the floor, then his head turned in all directions to watch the other people eat their food. An animal savagery flooded his eyes. Juan wasn’t looking at his cousin anymore, but some insatiable version of the man he once knew. Something had burrowed into his mind and was controlling him like a puppet—controlling everyone.

Mr. Chan edged toward Juan, then his softened features tightened back up into that sharp, angular sneer. “Do something.”

Juan just looked at him and shrugged. As if there was a damn thing he could do. He felt like a worm in a tank full of starving fish. Sweat rolled from his armpits and tickled his sides.

The fat man on the ground finally rocked himself to his hands and knees. He scuttled toward the spilled food, and with no hesitation, slammed his face into the thick pile and inhaled. The food disappeared and the man licked the greasy spot where it once was. His tongue, caked with partially chewed food, slid across the flat, blackened rug, the sound like sandpaper across wet concrete. Fat jiggled from side to side as he groaned and grunted. “Mmm…”

“Get up. Get out of restaurant,” Mr. Chan said. “Where are fucking police?” The blood still gurgled and bubbled out of his hand, staining his shirt.

The fat man stopped, turned his head, his eyes landing on Mr. Chan. They locked there, the lids widening, nearly pushing the eyeballs out. His lips hung loose from his skull, dripped brown drool that puddled on the rug beneath him. He moved like a slug across the floor, rolls of fat cascading across his body in waves; he bared his teeth and wheezed, growled and snorted.

“Stay away,” Mr. Chan said as he took blind steps backward. He glanced at Juan and pointed at the approaching man. “Stop him.”

Juan looked all around and the diners still refused to acknowledge what was happening. The sounds of chewing and slurping filled the restaurant.

Juan ran forward and got between the shuffling pile of lard and his boss. The Chinaman sounded off behind him in rapid-fire Chinese.

“Food…more food…stomach hurts.” With each word, he wiggled forward, snapping his teeth. His eyes were strained, the lids quivering. Veins bulged from his sweating forehead and around his eye-sockets.

“Stay back. Pinche cerdo,” Juan said. With a moment of hesitation, Juan kicked the man square in the face. He felt the face squash against his shoe like he’d kicked a bag of marshmallows. Trickles of blood ran from the man’s nostrils and faded in with the mess on his face. His tongue slithered out, sopped up the blood.

The man crawled under a table where a family of hogs shoved heaps of meat and saucy noodles into their maws. The crawling fat man’s face collided with the plump leg of the woman who sat there. Her chipped, red toenails sat atop toes that looked as spongy as Twinkies; the top of her foot bulged out of her sandal. She took no notice to the intruder-of-space under her table.