Matthew leaned his head against my shoulder, squeezing Toby against his chest.
The scratchy wool of the tiger’s ear brushed my arm.
The card table was wobbly, one leg shorter than the others by half an inch.
I had to fold a paper napkin and slide it under the metal foot to keep our water glasses from sliding.
The salt shaker on the table was sticky, covered in a thin layer of grease from the kitchen exhaust.
Matthew put Toby on the table, lining the stuffed tiger’s paws up with the edge of the paper place mat.
He looked toward the swinging doors every time they opened, his eyes wide.
A busboy in a black apron pushed a high cart loaded with dirty dishes past us.
A fork fell off the top tray, clattering against the linoleum floor right next to Matthew’s sneaker.
The busboy did not stop to pick it up.
I reached down, picked up the cold metal fork, and set it on the edge of our table.
The kitchen door swung open again, releasing a wave of hot air that smelled of boiled celery and dish soap.
“Mom, is our food coming?”
Matthew’s whisper was small, lost in the roar of the exhaust fan.
I looked at his face, pale under the harsh fluorescent bulb overhead.
“I will go check on it,” I said, squeezing his shoulder.
“Keep Toby safe.”
A waiter in a white apron rushed past us, carrying a tray of three steaming lobster plates toward the main dining room.
He did not look at our table, though our water glasses had been empty since we sat down.
I looked down at the paper place mat in front of Matthew.
There was no silverware set on his side of the small table.
