I watched him write on the top of the white box, in big capital letters, “EAT THIS AND DIE—PAUL.” Then he put it on a middle shelf of the fridge, near the back.

I found a nonemergency number for the police, not wanting to tie up a 911 line with a call about a potential food hazard that might keep a call about a house fire from getting through. I was bounced from desk to desk, getting the same message at every stop. Not our job. Call the health inspection office in the morning.

“Shit,” I said.

Paul said, “What’s for dinner?”

I didn’t tell Sarah about the episode at Burger Crisp. I was responsible for enough chaos that she already knew about, I couldn’t see the sense in piling it on. I asked Paul if he’d mind keeping his mother out of the loop, at least for now, about what had transpired, or how, exactly, he lost his job. “If your mother asks why you’re not going to work,” I said, “just tell her they hired somebody else instead.” Paul knew Sarah was mad at me, and he didn’t want to make things any more tense around the house, so he said okay. His conscience wasn’t the slightest bit disturbed by participating in a lie. This was troubling, but given the circumstances, I was also grateful.

“But that place,” he said, “it was really weird to work there. There were these people dropping by, at the back door, and they weren’t dropping off buns or meat or frozen fries or any shit like that. They’d drop off packages, and then later, someone else would come by and pick up the packages. And Mrs. Gorkin, the lady who ran the place? She didn’t think this was weird or anything.”

It sounded as though I’d gotten him out of there just in time.

The following morning, after another frosty evening with Sarah, I put in a call to the city’s health inspection department from my desk in the Home! section. I got, much to my surprise and in clear violation of my preconceptions about civil servants, a woman who said if I gave her enough details, she could probably find the health inspector responsible for the part of the city where Burger Crisp was located. I waited, hearing her tap away on a keyboard in the background, and then, “That would be Brian Sandler. Let me put you through to his extension.”

A few seconds, a ring, and then, “Sandler.”

I identified myself, told him I was calling from the Metropolitan but left it a bit murky as to whether this was a personal call or he was being interviewed for a story, and quickly told him what had transpired the evening before. Said at least one person, according to my son, who worked there, had come back to the restaurant complaining of food poisoning. That the owner, and her daughters, were not particularly open to discussing any possible problems with the menu. There was the matter of the baseball bat, for example.