Page 42 of The Suitcase Swap

Her hand hovered over the tray, her expression etched with misery. ‘But I’m hungry.’

‘No one is that hungry,’ Mike said, his brows furrowed. ‘The ham-fish tart might not even be the worst thing on there. You don’t know what other culinary atrocities await.’

She blinked at him. ‘I’m not sure my mind can conjure something worse than that.’

‘Good,’ Mike said. ‘Leave it that way.’

It was at that moment that the waiter came back. He was still smiling, and Sophie thought that even for an American, he smiled a great deal. His face was also shiny with sweat, like he’d been glazed with something before coming back out.

‘How is everything?’

Mike cleared his throat. ‘We were wondering if we could get . . .’ His voice trailed off, his face pinched with concern as he watched the waiter staring fixedly at their tablecloth. ‘Are you all right?’

The waiter laughed, the sound high and strangled.

Mike looked at Sophie.

Sophie widened her eyes in what she was hoping came across as a ‘I have no idea what’s going on’ kind of expression.

Mike tried again. ‘Is something amiss?’

The waiter blinked, giggled, then blew out a long breath. ‘I’m going to be honest with you, dude.’

For a long, drawn-out moment they waited for the waiter to say something else. When he didn’t, Sophie stepped in. ‘You’re going to be honest with us?’

The waiter gave another long, slow blink. ‘I am?’

‘Yes,’ Mike said. ‘You were. About something being amiss?’

The waiter nodded, absently scratching one of his arms. ‘My roommate told me to try microdosing.’

‘Microdosing what exactly?’ Mike asked, his tone neutral, like he was worried that if he spoke too sharply, the waiter would bolt like a startled horse.

‘Mushrooms.’ The waiter drew his arm over his face, using his shirtsleeve to wipe away the sheen of sweat.

‘Oh,’ Sophie said. ‘I see.’ She wasn’t entirely sure she did, but it seemed like the right thing to say.

‘Only, the scale was off,’ the waiter added. He laughed again, high and strained.

‘That sounds . . . not good.’ Mike’s voice maintained that delicately even tone. ‘How far off was it?’

The waiter picked up Mike’s mostly full teacup and took a long drink. ‘A lot.’ He blinked. ‘Is this tea supposed to be purple?’

Mike opted to not say anything about the tea. ‘So you’re not so much microdosing as you are regular dosing?’

‘I am ripped out of my gourd right now.’ The waiter set down Mike’s teacup. ‘Just high as fucking balls.’

‘I think,’ Mike said casually, ‘that you should tell your boss that you’re sick and go home.’ He pursed his lips, thinking. ‘How are you getting home?’

The waiter thought about this for a long moment before getting distracted by some of the jungle greenery. ‘I feel bad for the snake. Do you think we should set him free? He’s a living creature. He should be free. In the wild.’

‘I’m not sure even a snake would consider New York to be “the wild”,’ Sophie said. ‘Let’s leave the snake for now. What’s your name?’

‘Lee.’ The waiter shifted nervously. ‘You’re sure about the snake?’

‘I am,’ Sophie said firmly. ‘That snake loves his home. He’s safe there. It’s his favourite place.’

Lee relaxed. ‘Oh, good.’

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