Finally I try to talk again. I croak out, "Mio amore," and try no more. I signal that I'm ready to type. He gets his notebook and opens a text editor ...nd hands it to me. I type Ask. "Are you in any danger?" No. "Do you want me to call anyone?" Yes. Candy. Ask her to tell Mom I'm ok. "What else should I tell her?" I got fired. I'm done with Chicago. "What happened?" Give me an hour to write it. "Okay, take as much time as you need. I'll bring you a bell to signal me when you're done." Ok. I type. His adam’s apple is dancing. He is standing over her, then half turning away, vacillating, before flicking back to shout some further grievance, some additional threat, some new perceived fault. The child sits frozen, paralysed. She has been here before. Her sunglassed, tanned limbed mother smiles reassurance in the direction of our fellow customers. It is nervous and embarrassed and strained but it’s nonetheless unmistakeably intended to reassure. He has done it before. ‘Don’t worry — it’s. More

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