“Fired. All of you. Get out!”

They began asking questions, pleading with their eyes, but Mr. Chan was deaf to their begging. Juan knew the job was the only thing keeping them afloat, or at least most of them. He understood. The job was the only thing he had, and he’d only had that for a day. If he was fired, he would be in worse shape than when he was in Mexico, broke with a void where his dignity had once been. But at least there, even with his mother-in-law barking insults into his ear, he had a family. In America, he had his cousin and a job. And his cousin was…changing.

Mr. Chan shooed them out the back, slammed the door, locked it. He tossed the mop away and sighed, then spun and faced Juan.

Here it comes. I’m next.

“You,” Mr. Chan said. “Your cousin say you like to cook. You can cook?”

Juan glanced at Manuel who had worked his way back to his feet. His cousin clutched his stomach and leaned his posterior against the wall. “Uh…yes. I cook.”

“Good.” Mr. Chan tossed the keys to Juan. “You come early tomorrow. I find more workers. Mexicans all the same. You be here. Lots of work to do.”

“What the fuck?” Manuel had his fists at his sides, the veins in his arms bulging like wire under his skin. “I work hard for you. The food…something is wrong. You did this to me!”

Juan clutched the keys, felt them dig into his palm. Part of him wanted to rebel against this Chinese tyrant, to back up his cousin. But he pocketed the keys. His family was the most important thing, the only thing that truly mattered. Maybe he could help Manuel one day, but for now, he had to work.

“You get out of my restaurant.”

“Fuck you. Pinche chino. You did it. You—” Manuel bared his teeth and whimpered. “The recipe. What did you do?”

Mr. Chan’s eye twitched and he pursed his lips. He looked at Juan. “Get him out of kitchen. Be here in morning.”

Juan stepped to his cousin’s side, placed a gentle hand on his shoulder.

Manuel shrugged it off, spat on the floor, stormed out the back door.

Juan’s mustache twitched and his eyes darted from the door to Mr. Chan. “What is in recipe?”

Mr. Chan frowned. Without answering, he headed toward the double doors back toward the dining area. Then he turned his head to face Juan. “Clean kitchen before you leave.”

AMNESIA

It took every drop of Lola’s will not to vomit inside of the patrol car as they drove the fat man back to the station. His smell alone turned the air hot and thick and made Lola want to ride on the hood: body odor and Chinese spice and old blood and the slight sting of mace. He pressed his chubby face against the cage between the front and rear seats and grunted, smacked his wet lips and ran his tongue over them.