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David's despair tastes of macaroni salad and medium-rare hamburger.
He'd claimed to be hungry, but when Patrick offered a paper plate through the crack in the door — hand braced under it so it wouldn't fold, because David has a thing about food mixing — David's empty stomach crumpled like aluminum foil.
Now he sits at the motel room table, poking at congealing food with a plastic fork. He's pretty sure he's drowning. At least, saltwater stings his throat, and eight-ton pressure crushes his lungs.
Dizzy, all David can think is: he should have known it was too good to be true.