Photos.

Then come right back.

He was gone perhaps seven minutes.

When he slid back into his chair, he tilted his phone toward me under the edge of the tablecloth.

One photo showed a small unlabeled brown glass vial.

The other showed a yellow legal pad, and on it, in Dario’s neat hand, a short list of times — the evening laid out in tidy increments, ending in a single line: call 911. I was looking at a schedule.

Mine.