“But I do it wrong. I use too much. It not supposed to be like this.” Then just like that, he snapped out of it. He sat up straight, looked at Juan and furrowed his brow. He stared at the photo in his hand as if he’d just discovered it.

“Lo siento…sorry. You be okay.” Juan smiled and tried to stop his mustache from twitching.

Mr. Chan snorted and tossed the photo away. It fluttered to the floor. “What? You clean now. Plates everywhere. Get to work.” He stood, tossing the chair backward with the backs of his knees, and stomped toward his little office, spitting rapid Chinese phrases as he went.

Juan plucked the photo from the ground, smoothed out the bends and creases. He kissed his wife’s face, then his daughter’s. His lips came away damp from the tears that had coated the photo.

Peering toward the Chinaman’s office, he curled one hand into a fist at his side, then took a deep breath and walked across the room to retrieve his bus cart. He piled plates, cups, and silverware into it, making sure not to let anything break. The last thing he needed was more shit from his boss, and he knew the little man wouldn’t need much to set him off. So he did his job as quietly as he could. The plates had been licked clean, nearly to a sparkle, and he couldn’t find a streak of sauce on any one of them.

Crashing and grunts from the kitchen caught his attention. With his cart filled, he wheeled it toward the double doors, but stopped short. He could hear it loud and clear now and his stomach dropped. Just like the customers, that unmistakable sound of gorging. The slurping and smacking and gulping and moaning. It pulsed from the kitchen and Juan hesitated before shoving the cart through the doors.

The staff, with Manuel in the lead, had piles of food laid out on the counter. They didn’t say a word to each other as they stuffed the food into their mouths. Manuel dug into a silver bowl, pulling out handfuls of what looked like sesame chicken and mashing it into his mouth. Brown and orange sauce coated all their faces as they tore at the food like buzzards on a deer carcass.

The dishwasher—the squat, wrinkled man with a permanent-looking scowl—was on his hands and knees on the counter top, licking the chrome surface. He shuddered as if from orgasm as his tongue circled over the metal.

“Manuel…what are you doing, man?” Juan abandoned his cart and stalked toward his cousin. “What’s gotten into you?”

Manuel’s eyes landed on Juan, but there was no recognition there. He chewed like a grazing cow, his jaw moving rhythmically from left to right. His eyelids blinked slowly, then he lowered his head back to his food.

Juan grabbed Manuel by the shoulder, spun him around away from the counter. Manuel tried to turn back toward it, but Juan shoved him across the room, pinned him against the wall.