Breath 8
Sweat gathered on the Indian man’s forehead.
He stared down at the offending green curry in front of him,
the smell of lemongrass and coconut suddenly nauseating.
It didn’t matter anymore whether it was “authentic” or not.
What mattered was that he had no green card.
His wife, born in California, sat across from him,
her gold bangles clinking softly as she picked at her papaya salad.
He wondered which credit card she had for those bangles.
Wondered what would happen to their three American-born
children—two at UCLA, one at NYU—if he got taken in tonight.
They had no idea. They still thought he was from here.
“What should we do?” she whispered, panic flaring in her eyes.
“If they start asking questions…”
He inhaled through his nose.
Stay calm. Smile. He glanced toward the kitchen door.
Still no sign of Tom.
Why the hell is he worried about the curry?
His wife dropped her fork.
She leaned down to pick it up, and one of her gold bangles
slipped from her wrist, rolling across the polished floor like fate
itself—straight into the boot of an agent.
Fuck.
He watched, paralyzed, as the agent bent down, picked it up, and turned toward them.
The agent got up, and walk towards their table.
“This must be yours,” the agent said, smiling.
“Oh—thank you,” she said, forcing her voice steady.
The agent lingered. “You guys from around here?”
She nodded. “Yes, just a couple blocks away. We come here a lot.”
“Love Thai food, huh?”
“Except tonight,” she said with a shaky laugh.
“There’s a... green curry situation.”
The agent’s smile flickered as he turned toward the husband.
And that’s when Tom appeared—cool, sharp, a waiter turned guardian angel.
“Apologies for the delay, sir,” Tom said quickly.
“Our chef’s swamped with takeout orders, but she said she’ll make you a brand-new green
curry—if you can explain exactly what spices and vegetables you like.
If you don’t mind, you’ll need to tell her directly in the kitchen.”
The Indian man blinked.
Tom didn’t wait for him to respond.
From the corner of his eye, he saw the wife’s lip tremble, a tear slip down unnoticed.
The agent lingered a beat too long he felt out of place he—then turned back to his table.
Tom led the Indian man toward the kitchen.
They were just steps away from the swinging door when—
“Waiter!”
Tom stopped, turned.
The man beside him froze.
“Another round of beers,” the agent said. “Thanks.”
Tom gave a tight smile. “Coming right up.”
Then, without a word, he shoved the Indian man through the kitchen,
past the prep station, and into a darkened hallway.
He opened the storage room, slid back a piece of plywood
masquerading as a wall, and gestured him inside.
“Stay here,” Tom whispered.
The man ducked in, breath ragged.
Click.
The plywood slid shut behind him.
Darkness.
And then—
Snap.
A flashlight flickered on.
The man screamed.
Ploy’s mother blinked at him, completely unbothered.
holding up a knife and a perfectly carved rose,
she handed him a carved rose.
He didn’t know whether to cry or laugh.
He took the rose and
swallowed it whole.
