"You're still really pale." The worker leans back like you might explode. "I can call an ambulance?"
You can't afford the time right now. You've got finals to give and the pre-tenure committee to meet with. But you don't feel well enough to continue dinner. "All right, I'll see a doctor. Later. I don't have any lingering symptoms." Other than a faint headache, the background radiation of your life now.
"Let me box that up for you." The worker must really want you gone, because he has your meal in a to-go box faster than a pit crew changes tires. You stand, barely swaying at all, and make it to your car.
The mental fog dissipates on the drive home. You collapse in bed, not even bothering to take off your clothes.
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