There’s an awkward silence in the restaurant. Someone’s cell phone rings to the tune of ‘Roll Out’ by Ludacris. The beeper for the fryer goes off. After a few blinks, Michael snorts out a weird little laugh. He doesn’t smile, not really, just looks at Wolfgang like they’re a rabbit hole he’s falling down.
“I am too, okay!” he says. “And I’m—it’s personal, alright? I had to check.”