Chapter 2
The spacer was cold against my mouth. I could feel Dad's hand under my elbow, holding me steady, and the wood floor hard under my knees. The lights above us were still warm and yellow and everything else in the restaurant had gone quiet except for the sound of me trying to breathe.
I had the blue inhaler pressed into the clear mask and I was shaking so hard I thought I would drop it. Dad's other hand was on my back, not patting, just there.
"Breathe slowly," he said. His voice was low and close. He wasn't talking to the table anymore. He was talking only to me. "In through this. Slow."
I tried. The first puff hissed and I breathed in but it caught halfway and made me cough into the mask. My chest was still tight, like a band around my ribs.
"Again," he said. "Breathe slowly."
He counted out loud for me. "One. That's one." He shook the inhaler a little, the way you're supposed to. "Again, buddy. Two."
I kept my eyes closed because it was easier to focus that way. I could hear chairs scraping a few tables over and someone whispering. I could still smell the birthday cake candles burning on our table above us, that sweet wax smell mixing with the cleaner smell of the mask.
"Are you okay?" he asked after the second puff. He didn't expect me to answer with words. He just watched my face. His hand tightened a little on my back when I nodded, just a small nod, because I still couldn't get a full sentence out.
A shadow fell over us and I opened my eyes. A man in a black vest and white shirt was kneeling down on the other side of me, not too close. He had a short beard and a name tag I couldn't read. He didn't touch me.
"Sir, do you want me to call for help?" he said to Dad. His voice was calm but loud enough that other tables could hear. "We can call 911 right now, or I can get help to the door if you need an ambulance. Just say the word."
That changed something. Before, it had felt like it was just our table, just us. Now at least three tables were looking. A woman two tables over had her phone half out of her purse and was staring at Dad to see what he would say. The manager waited, hands on his knees, and didn't look away.
Dad didn't answer him right away. He kept his eyes on me and lifted the spacer slightly to check the mask seal. "You with me?" he asked me quietly. I nodded again and my breathing made a thin wheezy sound going out.
He looked up at the manager then. "Stay close for a minute," he said. "Don't call yet, but don't go far. I want to see if this starts working."
The manager nodded. "I'm right here. I'll bring water if you need it."
Behind us, her chair scraped. The woman in the red dress was still standing by the table, one hand on the white tablecloth near the cake. Her necklace caught the light when she moved. She let out a short laugh, like she was trying to make the whole thing smaller.
"He does this," she said to the manager, to the room really. Her voice was higher now. "You always need attention. That's what I told him. He was fine until we said no more soda. It's a birthday dinner and he wants everyone looking at him."
I felt my face get hot under the mask. I wanted to pull it off to say I wasn't, but Dad's hand held it gently in place.
The manager didn't answer her. He just looked at Dad.
Dad turned his head toward her. His jaw was tight and I could see the color up his neck. He didn't shout. He kept his voice low and even.
"Step away from the table," he said. "Right now. Step away so he can breathe."
She blinked. Her mouth opened like she was going to answer, but something in his face stopped her. She took one step back from the white tablecloth and crossed her arms. The gold ring on her hand caught the candlelight.
"You're making this bigger than it is," she said, quieter now but still with that edge. "You ruin my dinner over this."
Dad didn't look at her again. He turned back to me and shook the inhaler for the last puff. My breathing had eased just enough that the inhale didn't catch as hard. It was still wheezy, a rough whistle on the way out, and my chest still felt heavy, but I wasn't clawing at my shirt anymore.
"Last one," he whispered. "Breathe slowly. Nice and slow for me."
I did. The mist felt cool. I held it like the nurse at school had taught me, counting in my head.
"Are you okay?" he asked again when I opened my eyes.
I could finally say a little word. "Okay," I said, but it came out thin and wheezy, and I had to take two quick breaths after it.
Dad nodded to the manager. "We're going to leave," he said. He started to stand, keeping one arm around me to help me up. He looked at our table, at the cake with the candles still burning and the water glasses and my dark teal backpack half open on the chair. "Can you box that cake for me? We'll be at the door."
The manager stood too. "Of course. Take your time getting to your car."
Dad pulled my backpack up onto his shoulder with his free hand. He didn't try to put it on me. He kept me close against his side as we walked between the tables. My legs felt wobbly and each breath still whistled a little, but I could walk. People looked down at their plates as we passed, pretending not to stare.
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Behind us, I heard her heels on the wood floor. She grabbed her small purse from the table and followed us toward the doors, saying something under her breath about how she did nothing wrong and we were both overreacting, and the manager stepped between her and us just enough to hold the cake box out for Dad.
The doors opened and the parking lot air hit us, cold and sharp, and Dad kept walking toward the car without stopping.
