She locked eyes and flagged me down with a slightly raised hand. She was hunting.

Backed into a corner, my muscles seized with panic. I considered and dismissed a myriad of escape plans. I braced myself for the worst as she approached.

She began recounting some idiotic story, tactlessly batting aside the suggestion that she had already told me this story. Her mouth flapped open and shut, reminding me of a trout gasping for air. The story was punctuated with sudden pauses that teased an imminent end to the story. Instead, she droned on with painfully unnecessary details. She was enjoying herself, a bored kitten entertained by a cornered mouse.

I had to act boldly. I clutched my stomach and doubled over, faking a loud gag. As she extended her arm in phony concern, I sprinted towards the restroom, towards freedom. I looked over my shoulder and rejoiced to see her approaching Uncle Bilal, who, oblivious to the danger, was fumbling with his phone.