Luke elbows him. “Don't be an asshole.”
“What? I'm not being an asshole, I'm being observant. He looks like he hasn't slept since…when did you land?”
“Five days ago,” I manage.
“Five days. James, that's not healthy.”
“Thank you for that medical assessment.”
“See? He's still sarcastic. That's a good sign.”
Luke shakes his head. “That's his baseline. If hestoppedbeing sarcastic, that's when we'd worry.”
“I'm right here,” I point out.
“We know,” they say in unison.
“What is it, man? Something with Sequel? Is Maura okay?”
I should answer him. Words form in my mind, but my tongue goes dry and I can’t say them. For a moment, I just open and close my mouth like a fish. Then I just…shut down. I can't bring myself to speak. The edges of my vision blur, and I feel like I'm at the end of a very dark cave. Luke and Beau’s voices sound distant and hollow.
“Shit,” Luke says. “It's happening again. I haven't seen him like this since?—”
“His parents. Fuck,” Beau mutters.
“How do we snap him out of it?”
“I don’t know. That was always Nate’s department, not mine.”
It’s cold in the back of the cave. My muscles convulse in some imitation of a shiver.
“Well, we’ve got to do something.” Luke’s voice sounds frantic. “Should I slap him?”
“That’s not how you get someone out of a panic attack. What do you think this is, a movie from the 30s? What’s next, should I get the smelling salts?”
“You’ve got a better idea?”
“Let’s get him into the kitchen,” Beau says firmly. “I have an idea.”
Somehow, the two of them maneuver my body into standing. Some deep, distant part of me knows we must look insane, Beau and Luke bodily shoving me through the restaurant like we’re inWeekend at Bernie’s. Fortunately, I don’t have the capacity to feel embarrassed right now. I feel…nothing. Nothing except cold and hollow and complete apathy to this moment.
The lights in the kitchen are white fluorescents, and my eyes narrow at the sudden brightness. The restaurant’s atmospheric music disappears, replaced by clattering pans, chopping knives, and the occasional shouted instruction from a chef.
Beau stops me in front of a counter in the back and shoves something into my hand. “Now, peel,” he says firmly.
I glance up at a large pile of brown potatoes, then down at what apparently is a peeler. Luke groans.
“This is your big idea? Peeling potatoes? James grew up with an army of private chefs. He hasn’t peeled a vegetable in his life.”
“It’s fine. He can’t mess it up. We can always buy more potatoes. Here.” Beau’s cool hands maneuver mine until I’m grasping a potato in one hand and putting the peeler against it with the other. “Light pressure, break through the skin. Then push away from your hand, like this. That’s it. You got it.”
To my surprise, I do. The motions are slow and awkward at first, but after a few tries, I get the hang of it. I'm peeling potatoes. This is new. It takes several minutes for me to fully remove the skin. Beau hands me another potato, and I peel that one, too. My hands figure out what to do, and they take over. The blur at the edge of my vision vanishes. The fluorescent lights feel less bright, and my body feels like it belongs to me again.
Beau doesn’t have to hand me the next potato. I reach for it myself.
“You snapped him out of it,” Luke says in wonder. “How did you do that?”
“It's called a flow state,” Beau explains. “You do a repetitive task, and you slip into a different state of mind. I like to come in and do restaurant prep myself when I'm having a bad day. Keep going, James. You don't have to tell us what happened if you don't want to.”
