I refilled the water glasses at the party of four, took a dessert order, laughed at something one of them said, and then I made my way back across the dining room toward the velvet corner booth to collect the payment.

The booth was empty.

For a second my mind simply refused to process it, the way your mind refuses the first instant of any small disaster.

I stood there looking at the empty booth, at the cleared table, at the two crumpled napkins, and I thought, absurdly, that they must have moved, that I had the wrong table, that they had stepped out for air.

And then my eyes went to the check presenter sitting on the edge of the table, and I flipped it open, and it was empty.