The panic attack hit about seven-thirty the next morning. I was standing in the kitchen, draining my second cup of coffee while I waited for the third one to brew.

I think it might have been caused by a dream I had last night, but I never remember my dreams. This one didn't come back to me, but it was powerful enough to put a cramp in my stomach, the tinny rhythm of my heart doubling over itself, my head out of my control, ripping down train tracks at a speed much too fast for me.

I couldn't remember the dream for the life of me. It brought with it something like fear that I could not touch, just out of my reach. I might have been making coffee in the dream, and it brought back some horrible trauma that had left me scarred. I can't remember the trauma at all, but some part of me won't release it. That part of me, that little protector that lives somewhere in my body, holds this horror, protecting the rest of me from it. It's claustrophobic from the inside out, like my big body is too small for whatever is going on inside it.

I dropped my mug, not even noticing the coffee that splashed my bare feet as I pushed myself out the door onto my deck. The wooden slats were wet under my feet, the air chilled with rain, and I gulped it deep. Whatever was inside me pressed against my bladder and throat, expanded against my rib bones, and shoved itself so hard against my head that I thought it would pop right off my neck, reeling end-over-end through the air. Losing my fucking mind. Maybe that's where that expression came from.

"Come on back," I said out loud, just so I could hear it. "Just change the subject and you'll be fine." Leaning against the cold aluminum storm door, hands buried in my sleep-tangled hair, everything started to clear.

I quit last night. I'm no longer a chef. I'm unemployed. I have no plans that exceed taking a shower at some point today. For the first time in my life, there is no agenda, nothing to guide me, no one telling me what to do, no clock dictating my place. It's just me.

I went inside, cleaned the spilled coffee, threw on jeans and a T-shirt, and headed to Kara and Max's. I never just drop in on people, but my brain's shot to hell from that spell that I didn't even think to call Kara. I just drove.

Kara's also a refugee from Jan's. She started there as a bookkeeper about six months after I got my full-time chef's position. It was a job, one she needed desperately after spending three months checking groceries. Kara had graduated magna cum laude with a degree in Romance languages. Unable to find a teaching job in Columbia, she took what she could get while she waited for Max, her fiancé, to graduate.

She's a female Buddha, tall and round and soft. Her size isn't intimidating or uncomfortable. At first, though, it was uncomfortable to me. Every time I see a big woman, I wonder if we're the same size. A few weeks after Kara started working at Jan's, before I'd decided if I liked her or not, I snuck into the closest and tried on her coat, just to get an idea of how our sizes related. It hung about two inches too long, the shoulder seams about an inch below my shoulder. When I buttoned it, I could pull the fabric away from my body with plenty of room to spare.

I think I started paying attention to Kara because she was bigger than me and had found a man. Yes, that's petty, fueled by my own insecurities, and goes against every feminist ideology I hold dear. And it's not like I've ever had trouble attracting men. My sexual history reads like a textbook, but I still think a lot of men got into bed with me because they wanted to confirm the occasionally uttered confession that no one fucks as good as a fat girl.

But not Kara's Max. He's proud of Kara's body. She's sexy because of her size, not in spite of it. I wonder how Kara carried herself before she fell in love with Max, if she rolled her shoulders forward and kept her head down, like she was trying to keep from taking up too much space, the posture I still have to remind myself to fight.

The only times I've seen Kara assume that pose involved her being on the receiving end of Jan's tirades. After six months of being Jan's whipping girl, Kara left to tutor European exchange students. Of course, she left just as we were becoming friends.

She's wearing a pair of Max's boxer shorts and a T-shirt with no bra when she comes to the door.

"What's wrong?" She squeezes aside, making room for me to ooze into the tiny foyer. It was never intended to hold two women who weigh well over 200 pounds each. We always bump and dance and suck in when I enter. As I brush against her I can smell the hints of Chinese tea and flowers that always lace her skin even before her morning shower.

"Did I wake you?"

"No. I was just making coffee. Max still asleep. Are you okay?"

I looked down at myself, expecting to see someone disheveled, dirty. But I was the way I always am: a little mussed, but otherwise clean in my T-shirt, jeans, and Hush Puppies. "I'm okay." I sat on the edge of the black leather couch, not bothering to move yesterday's newspaper out of my way. "I quit my job last night."

"What?" Kara bellowed. I've never heard her abandon her soft, polite, almost nondescript voice before. I giggled.

"I just walked out in the middle of a wedding. Vamoose. Bye bye." My giggles deepened until we were both writhing in laughter, our bodies shaking.

"Good morning, Ladies." Max lumbered through the doorway between the bedroom and living room, wearing a pair of boxers just like Kara's, his curly black hair sleep-rumpled.

"Guess what." I stood up, flinging out my arms. "I'm unemployed!"

"Voluntarily or involuntarily?"

"Both! I volunteered to leave because I couldn't stay any longer."

Kara poured coffee for us as I told about the fire and my departure. Max smoked his pipe, looking older than twenty-five in the mist of silver smoke that smelled like warm garden mulch. I held my mug tightly in both hands, letting its warmth seep through my skin. I didn't sip for fear that it would trigger another attack, even though I felt grounded and safe with Kara and Max.

"Are you going to freelance?" Kara asked when I finished. "We were going to have our moms take care of the food for the wedding, but we'll pay you to do it, if you don't mind cooking in your bridesmaid dress."

"Oh, sure. Do you want a circus theme, or perhaps a quaint little shotgun wedding barbecue?"

"I think finger sandwiches will suffice," she laughed. "Seriously, I'd love for you to do it, and you'll be needing the money."

"Let me talk to Elaine. I don't have the hardware it'll require, but I'll see what I can do." It was stalling, and I hope it wasn't obvious. At this point, I can't begin to imagine myself in a kitchen for a long time. "Speaking of food, do you want to grab breakfast? I'm starved."

"I could do breakfast," Max looks at Kara. "Hon, can we do breakfast?"

"Hold on." Kara pulls her purse from the closet and counts her cash. "If we keep it cheap, we can. Ernie's?"

Ernie's is bad for me, but it makes me feel good, and that's what I need. I used to come here with my friend James. We'd do hung-over Saturday and Sunday breakfasts of egg sandwiches with hot peppers and hash browns. He moved to Kansas City almost a year ago, and I've only been to Ernie's twice since then. It's not the same.

Ernie's always makes me feel a little claustrophobic. It's got the crowded narrowness that separates an authentically old diner from copycats. I always take a deep breath when I walk in, like air might be in short supply. When James and I would come here, I'd chain smoke his Camels, just so I'd have something to remind me to inhale deeply. In James' absence, I've pretty much quit smoking.

It's easy to become transfixed at Ernie's. The lights are always low, melting into the plush turquoise walls. If they ever turned all the lights on, we'd be blinded by the reflection on the chrome-plated counters and fixtures. Most of the patrons come in alone, sitting at the counter and small tables, some talking to the familiar alone faces they see here all the time.

We take a table next to a man in his forties. He cuts his eggs and sausage in a coordinated sawing whip, left hand guiding the fork, right hand whipping the knife, the utensils clinking like swords against each other.

"Where do you two want to sit?" I asked as we gather around our table. "I can't decide whether to sit facing the wall or the restaurant." I took the seat facing the restaurant.

"Well, doesn't look like you were that distressed over the decision," Max snorted before sitting across from me.

"I'm getting good at rash decisions." I had a thought. "You've both read quite a bit of Hemingway, right?" They nodded. "He wrote about this, I think it was the Nick Adams stories. Nick's dad was a doctor and he took Nick on his rounds because he wanted him to learn the profession. They were on some South Pacific island at the time. Dad was delivering a native woman's baby. She was on the bottom bunk, and the father was on the top, facing the wall, writhing and moaning as much as the woman. When the birth was over, they discovered that the father had slight his own throat and was dead. My sophomore English teacher said that facing the wall is always symbolic of committing suicide, so I try to avoid facing the wall when things suck. Self-fulfilling prophecies, you know.

"I've heard that story, only different." Max paused, letting the smoke from his pipe filter from his lips. "I always thought that the story was Hemingway's dad used to take him on his rounds, and the man in the bunk died of a heart attack during the birth."

"Either way, the guy in the bunk faced the wall and died." The waitress interrupted, and we ordered French toast, coffee, bacon, and eggs.

"So, you're afraid that if you face the wall, you'll die?" Max lit his pipe, puffing after his question.

"Not necessarily. I just don't like to take chances on things like that. I never slept on my back when I was a kid because dead people on TV were always on their backs. I didn't want Mom to walk in and think I was dead because I was laying on my back." Kara's laugh echoed through the diner, while Max shook his head.

"Nothing neurotic about you, Thalia."

"Nope. Not a damn thing." I sighed.

A bevy of women in flowing silk and rayon dresses squeezed into the restaurant, not looking like they'd ever sat foot into a restaurant as dark and greasy as Ernie's. They looked like three generations of the same family, all blond, all made up more than most people this early on a Saturday morning. When they sat at the table beside us, their voices swamping the clank of plates and silverware, the call of waitresses to the cooks.

"Your hair looked just gorgeous last night, Alyssa. Just beautiful. And I can hardly smell the smoke in it."

My head jerked in the direction of the voice before I could stop it, like it was on a puppet string and someone else was controlling it. Puffy-faced, her hair still holding the final dying grips of a French twist, Alyssa Gage sat among the bevy, blotting tears with a napkin.

I turned 180 degrees, back to the smoky bride. "Don't look … not directly at her. That woman who just walked in, with her hair falling down? See her?" I hissed to Max and Kara.

"Yes…"

"She was the bride last night." I propped my elbows on the table, covering my face with my hands so that Alyssa's attention wouldn't be caught by the string of profanities I was uttering.

"Oh, fuck," Kara whispered through clenched teeth.

"Kara! How are you? So good to see you!" I removed my hands from my face just in time to see Jan swooping onto Kara, wrapping her bony arms around her. My face instantly dropped back, like hiding in my hands would make me invisible. It always worked when I was three, why not now?

"So, Jan, what brings you to a dive like this?" Max had no qualms about making anyone nervous, especially someone who sent his wife home in tears so many time. He didn't have to live with Jan. And neither do I, now that I think about it. At this point I'm all but laying down in the booth, face still covered. I'm invisible! You can't see me!

"Oh, Max, I just love Ernie's! The finest American food, I say!"

"Slumming it, eh?"

She straightened from Kara, smoothing the red crepe of her jacket. "Actually, a client wanted to come here. Poor thing. We had the most beautiful wedding planned for her last night, complete with a glowing tree full of candles. Unfortunately, the people who engineered the project were too incompetent to do it correctly. It was tragic, the way that tree went up in flames. It was over 200 years old, that oak." I could taste the blood on the end of my tongue, drawn by the force of my teeth from anger and fear.

"Really?" Max blew a puff of smoke. "Most oaks around here are nowhere near that old. At least, not that old without being rotted through."

"Yes, well," Jan continued her nervous smoothing. "It never should have happened. At any rate, the groom was so distraught that he called the whole thing off. I've been awake all night, comforting that poor bride and her mother. She's eaten nothing but cabbage soup for the past month, trying to keep that gloriously tiny waist for the wedding, and she's done nothing but eat since the fire. What can we do? She needs the comfort of good food, I suppose."

Why am I shaking, hiding in a booth with my back to this woman - this trite, ignorant woman who doesn't even have the spine to take credit for her own poorly engineered mishap? She has no power over me anymore. I could leave the table, never speaking another word to her. I could tell her to fuck herself and the stump of the 200-year-old tree. I could be syrupy gracious and dignified. I could cry and beg for my job.

"Will you be mailing my vacation pay to me, or do I have to pick it up?" I said it before I thought about it. Removing my hand from my face, I straighten a bit. I could stand up and demand my money, the six inches and 130 pounds that separate us giving Jan no choice but to write the check right now. Instead, I cross my legs and fold my arms, looking at Jan's chin so I don't have to see her eyes.

"Thalia! Oh, you've got nerve, Girl, thinking I'm giving you any money after the mess you made! And leaving the scene! I could have you arrested for leaving the scene of an accident!"

"Uh, Jan, that only applies to car accidents," Kara said.

"Shut up, Kara. This doesn't involve you. I'm talking to my lawyer about last night, Thalia. There was a great deal of damage, and the Gage's are not responsible for payment. We have to regroup our costs somehow."

"So you're going to sue me?"

"I'm not at liberty to say at this point. But yes, we're going to make every attempt to regain the lost property and capital."

"Even though it was your idea to hang candles from an unsound structure, near flammable materials?"

Jan chortled, shaking her head. "Oh, Thalia, I wasn't the one who constructed the project. That was your responsibility."

The bile welled all the way to my esophagus as the waitress set our plates on the table. She was either oblivious to the nature of our conversation, or just used to breakfast brawls. "Okay. Fine. Sue me, Jan. I've got $1000 in vacation pay, along with about one-third of my last paycheck. I've got an eight-year-old Chevy that needs new brakes. About all you'll be able to get from me are some really good mix tapes and a recipe for blueberry poundcake." I stabbed my French toast, ripping a piece in half and shoving it in my mouth, finally boring my eyes into hers as I chewed the huge wad.

"You'll be hearing from my attorney." She turned on her tiptoes, wobbling a bit as she rejoined Alyssa's brood. I stopped shoveling the toast into my mouth long enough to coat it with warm syrup. No one spoke as we finished breakfast. Max paid the bill, and we wordlessly parted.