Bodies collided like bumper cars as they exited. Their eyes kept roaming to the empty tables and buffet behind them, as if they were unable to accept that all the food was gone. They looked at each other, at Mr. Chan, at Juan with quivering eyes. Tongues slid over lips, hot burps exploded from throats, adding to the thick atmosphere of the restaurant.

When the last pig had left, and the EMTs gathered their equipment and exited, Mr. Chan locked the door, sat down and sighed. His hard demeanor faded and he seemed to lose himself in his thoughts.

Juan just stood there, unsure of what to do or say. He’d only known this man for a day, but he could tell that something heavy weighed him down. Mr. Chan looked up at Juan, and for a moment, looked ready to launch another verbal attack, but he just shook his head and buried his face in his shaking hands.

“It not supposed to be like this.”

Juan wasn’t sure if Mr. Chan said it to him or himself. He opened his mouth to speak, but didn’t know how to say it in English, so he just clicked his tongue instead.

“I only want successful business. But not like this. It my fault…everything.”

Juan shuffled his feet, shoved his hands in his pockets. The photo of his family wedged between his fingers and he pulled it out. He handed it to Mr. Chan. “I work for my family. They no here.”

Mr. Chan’s hand trembled as he held the photo, peered at it with those intense slits. His thumb bent the corner of the photo.

Juan took a step backward, not sure if he’d crossed the line. He clenched his teeth and braced himself.

But Mr. Chan wept. His sobbing sounded squeaky, like a dog toy with a hole in it. Pointy shoulders bounced and he gripped the photograph harder, creasing it. Juan could see him trying to collect himself, but the tears won the battle and refused to stop spilling. The way Mr. Chan was bent, leaned over with his elbows resting on his knees, the tears ran down his nose, met at the tip, swelled there before dropping and splashing on the rug, some of them dripping onto the photograph. Juan wanted nothing more than to snatch his picture back.

“My wife…she leave me. For American,” Mr. Chan said between sobs. He cleared his throat. “Restaurant doing bad. Food terrible. When no more money…she go. Leave me here.” His face melted into a sharp frown. A tiny smile crept onto his mouth. “My grandfather, he live in China. So many successful restaurants. I ask him how. He give me…special recipe. Tell me people will love my food, but say be careful, say it very powerful.”

Juan stood there, understanding just enough of Mr. Chan’s words to get the gist of what he was saying. The little man no longer acknowledged Juan’s presence, just speaking his thoughts out loud. He stared at the rug by his feet and giggled slightly.