He slammed the phone down, turned to face Juan. “You done?”

Juan nodded.

“I find more workers. That easy,” Mr. Chan said. He stood up and grabbed Juan’s arm. His fingers were like needles and cold to the touch. “You be here early in morning. Show me how good you cook.”

After seeing the slop Mr. Chan had been serving the Americans, he had no worries that he could do the job. It was the one skill he was proud of. Sure, he’d never attempted anything even close to Chinese food, but he expected it would be no different than anything else, just different spices and sauces. He still felt pangs of guilt about Manuel losing his job. Then he remembered the look on Manuel’s face as he gorged himself, and his guilt was replaced with fear.

Juan knew it wasn’t Manuel’s fault. There was something in the food that was changing people. Making them so hungry, they couldn’t control themselves any more. It seemed a bit ridiculous to Juan that Mr. Chan would have some secret ingredient that was triggering the strange behavior, but he saw it with his own eyes: people turning cannibal, his own cousin—his best friend—hypnotized by hunger.

But Juan needed the job. Sure, the people were like zombies, but they loved the food so much, they couldn’t stop themselves. And the man who bit Mr. Chan and the woman, he was just crazy. That’s what Juan told himself over and over.

I need the money. My family needs me to work.

Juan shuffled his feet, found it hard to lift his eyes and direct them at his boss. “Mr. Chan? Can I have pay?”

When the Chinaman’s eyes found Juan, they were like garbage disposals grinding up what little courage he had left. Then he smiled, though his eyes stayed hard as nails. He squatted to the metal safe by his desk, turned his body to block the view to the combination, then spun it to the left and right. He opened it, but just enough to get his hand in. Juan couldn’t see what was in there. Mr. Chan closed it up, stood and faced Juan, a wad of folded money clutched in his bandaged hand.

“Here. You do good today. You be here early. Six o’clock.” He handed the bills to Juan.

Juan hesitated as if the money were decorated with poisonous spines. His hand moved slowly through the air, then he snatched it out of Mr. Chan’s hand like a toad’s tongue catching a fly. “Thank you, sir.”

“I see you in morning.” Mr. Chan sat at his desk and ran his uninjured hand through is hair. He sighed and closed his eyes, remained so still, Juan thought he’d fallen asleep.

The photo of a woman in a chrome frame sat by the telephone. Pale skin, thin red lips bordering a mouthful of pearly teeth. She smiled sweetly from behind the glass.

“You still here?”

Without saying another word, Juan escaped the office and jogged toward the corner store. He bought a phone card and smiled as he imagined the soothing sound of his family’s voice massaging his brain and melting the stress away. He’d decided he would also buy some fresh food and make him and Manuel the best goddamned enchilada dinner they’d ever had. His mouth watered in anticipation.