They would never make it. Jane kept putting one foot in front of the other, following King, with Rock following her, and all of them following J.T. She’d been in the kitchen at Mama Guadaloupe’s before, picking up dinner one night with Skeeter, and the place had not changed. It was still orchestrated chaos, pans rattling, a dozen people talking, half in Spanish, half in English, constant movement, nobody standing still, and everybody getting in their way. People were crowded up against the pickup line, stacking plates up their arms, putting finishing touches on meals, expediting orders, and the four of them were going the wrong way, trying to jostle their way through, moving against the flow. Ten seconds. She was counting it in her head, and they would never make it. The kitchen was hot, about ninety-five degrees, the air rich with the spicy smells of food. It had hit her like a blast furnace when they’d come through the door. Between the heat and the fear, she didn’t know what was making her sweat more—but she was betting on fear.
