I stir my Postum. The wheat grains dissolve into the water, turning it murky. “The Problem?”

“I thought maybe you … you know? Something happened last night.” Em leans forward, waiting, waiting, waiting, just like me.

Tom’s almost through the line. He’s dimple grinning at the lunch lady. She blushes and hands him back his card. His strong fingers smash it into the back pocket of his jeans. Then he turns, makes eye contact with me even though we’re all the way across the cafeteria.

I swallow. My hand clutches my mug of Postum like that will make me steady. “The Problem is still a problem.”