There was a pause, then Mike exhaled shakily. “I’m coming over.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I’m coming,” he said, and that was that.
Within an hour, my apartment doorbell rang. Mike, Kate, Mom, and Dad stood there like they’d run through traffic to get to me. Mom’s eyes were red. Dad looked furious, but not at me—at the universe, at the café, at the idea that danger still existed.
Sam let them in, calm as ever, and explained what happened. He spoke in facts. Timeline. Symptoms. Action taken. He didn’t add drama. He didn’t soften it either.
Kate’s hands shook. “You used it,” she whispered, staring at my bag like it was a sacred object.
“Yes,” I said. “Immediately.”
Mom stepped forward slowly, like she was afraid I’d vanish. “I’m so sorry,” she said.
It was reflexive, the apology. But this time I didn’t bristle. I understood what she meant: I’m sorry this is your life. I’m sorry it’s still hard.
Dad’s jaw clenched. “What did you eat?”
I told them. I also told them we didn’t know yet what caused it. Cross-contamination. Hidden ingredient. Human error.
Dad turned to Sam. “You did everything right,” he said, and his voice cracked slightly.
Sam nodded. “She did,” he said. “She didn’t hesitate.”