43
The folding table snapped in half around Deck’s impact, each half rebounding into the air.
Dale stood, stunned.
A cinnamon roll bounced greasily against his glasses.
More mauled cinnamon rolls rained around him, pattering to the marble tile in sticky smears.
The broken chunks of table landed with a clang.
Then a scream pierced Dale’s eardrums.
Dale tried to look around to see who it was but he couldn’t. His jaw was locked open, his neck rigid, inflexible.
It was him. Dale was screaming.
Everyone was going to look at him.
He had to get away. Had to stop.
Stop making a scene.
But his feet were riveted to the tile.
Dale dragged his hand up and tried to cover his mouth, but it wasn’t a hand, it was his fist, and it wouldn’t fit between his teeth and the room was starting to tur
