Panic—clean and hard—cut through the fog. He turned and ran for the door. But the door was gone. In its place was another booth, occupied by a man in a gray suit whose face was slowly melting into the table, the wood grain absorbing his features like a sponge.
The whisper grew louder. Shhhhh. Shhhhhh. soft restaurant full crack
Jesse tried to scream. What came out was a soft, wet sigh. Panic—clean and hard—cut through the fog
And then he was sitting in a booth. A fork in his hand. A pea on the fork. A whisper on his lips. In its place was another booth, occupied by
The restaurant was full. Every red vinyl booth was occupied. Every stool at the counter was taken. But no one was eating. They sat in perfect stillness, their faces slack, eyes half-closed. A woman in a powder-blue dress held a fork an inch from her lips, a green pea balanced on its tines, trembling. A man in a fedora stared at a cup of coffee so old a skin had formed on top, iridescent as oil.