Jenkins
Like every night, I sit with Zeldric and his people around the dining table. I still think I shouldn’t have told him about Afghanistan. I don’t even know why I did. Maybe, after what happened between us, some kind of intimate bond has formed—one I don’t understand. Not that it was ever a secret. I expected him to judge me for what I did, but he didn’t. I suppose that for a murderous mobster, the fact that I’ve killed more than twenty people isn’t particularly relevant. After all, he probably has a lot more skeletons in his closet.
I keep my head down and eat in silence, only responding to a few comments from Beni and Oscar. Lagos still acts strange around me—he’s been doing it since Zeldric returned from his trip a few days ago. I get the impression he’s avoiding me. I don’t know
