The bill had just arrived when the waitress leaned closer and whispered that his card had been declined. His face turned pale. He checked his pockets, forced a nervous laugh, and blamed the bank for freezing his card after a recent trip. I offered to split the bill, but he refused. Instead, he stood up and guided me toward the exit, placing a hand against my back. I assumed he was embarrassed by the situation. I had completely misunderstood what was happening.

Halfway across the parking lot, the waitress caught my arm. Her voice barely rose above a whisper. “I lied,” she said, pressing the receipt into my palm before returning inside. Beneath the printed total, two words were scrawled in frantic handwriting: drink drugged. Suddenly, I remembered the strange bitterness in my glass near the end of dinner. Until that moment, I had blamed the lemon.