Helen lifts the fish knife, turns it over, and places her hand over it. The waiter appears with salad, and takes the knife away with a swift, smooth stroke. Too late. They are too efficient here. She looks at the dessert spoons. Possibly, possibly. She is sweating. Her blouse is sticking to her back and she can feel her hair, damp, curling against her neck. Her heart is starting to pound, a hard nauseating pounding. Panic attacks, her therapist, Martha Kim, calls them.