"Can I take your order, ma'am?" the waitress asked, her pen poised over the notepad.

Camila glanced at the menu, the vibrant pictures of Mexican dishes momentarily distracting her from the gnawing knot in her stomach. "I'll have the chicken enchiladas, please," she said, managing a small, polite smile. "And a large iced tea."

It was noon, exactly fifteen hours since the party. Her phone lay face down on the table, a silent reminder of her usual loneliness, which now somehow felt ...