And then he was sitting in a booth. A fork in his hand. A pea on the fork. A whisper on his lips.
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. soft restaurant full crack
The whisper grew louder. Shhhhh. Shhhhhh. And then he was sitting in a booth