Manuel growled, snapped his teeth, nearly catching Juan’s finger.

Juan slapped him, coating his palm in the sticky sauce that had covered his cousin’s face. “Snap out of it, goddamnit. What’s your fucking problem?”

Manuel continued to ignore him, stretched his neck to get another look at the food. The rest of the staff devoured what was left. Wet gasps filled the air.

“Manuel!”

Manuel blinked, looked into Juan’s eyes. Something came back and Manuel crinkled his brow. He looked down at himself, then at his surroundings. “What’s the matter?”

“What’s the matter? Look at yourself.”

Manuel held his hands in front of his face, gazed at them. He frowned at the mess that was there, then at the stains decorating his shirt. “What’s going on?” A guttural rumble belched from his stomach, and Manuel nearly doubled over. “My stomach…”

The rest of the workers were oblivious to anything but the food, and some of them had wandered back into the cooler to get more. Juan concentrated on keeping his cousin grounded, tried to block the view of the others so he wouldn’t snap back into whatever state of mind he was in. The state of mind that was common at the Paradise Buffet.

Manuel grimaced, leaned against the wall. “It hurts…ah, shit.”

Juan patted him on the back, watched the others with a defensive eye. If any of those bastards started toward them, Juan would be running toward the knife block just to his right.

But the Mexicans didn’t even know he was there.

The double doors swung in and slammed against the walls.

“What you doing? You steal from me!” Mr. Chan blew into the room like a hurricane. His feet collided with fallen silverware and metal bowls. He roared a stomach full of Chinese, then pounded his fists on the counter. “You fired! All of you fired.”

Mr. Chan turned toward Juan and Manuel. He crossed his arms and stomped toward them. When he reached them, Juan side-stepped, leaving his cousin at the mercy of the Chinaman. Mr. Chan jabbed a finger in the middle of Manuel’s chest, then wiped his finger on his pant leg. “You in charge back here. You…you fired too.”

“Wait…Mr. Chan—” Manuel had wrapped his sticky fingers over Mr. Chan’s arm, then winced and fell backward, clutching his mid-section.

Mr. Chan bent down, and for a moment, Juan thought he was showing concern for Manuel. But he unclipped a set of keys from Manuel’s belt loop. “Steal from me? Get out! All of you!”

The rest of the staff still didn’t comprehend what was going on, didn’t have a clue their boss had just let them go. Mr. Chan picked up a mop that was propped against the wall and swung it like a bat toward the workers. The wooden handle whopped the dishwasher in the arm, then one of the former cooks in the chest. As he cracked the mop handle against each one of them, Juan saw their faces melt into confusion. They looked around the kitchen, at each other. Their eyes widened as Mr. Chan ushered them toward the back door, swinging his weapon.