Chapter 8The table that night was decidedly quiet, the setting sun illuminating the age of the table and the handful of plates arrayed before them.
Jude sat in silence, looking glumly down at his plate, trying to work out what he should say and feeling suddenly struck dumb by the sheer scale of everything that weighed upon him.
“I went to see Mister Mo earlier,” he muttered at last, pushing away his half-finished plate and eliciting a scowl from Marta.
She raised an eyebrow, waiting for him to elaborate, and he squirmed in his seat, the radio playing softly in the background, a chorus of words repeated over and over again: hold on, hold on, hold on.
“Yeah, I just thought I should apologize and stuff,” he said, still struggling to find the right words, “you know, about getting drunk and
