118

"I think that if we agree to be honest with each other, we will avoid unnecessary headaches," warns Jonathan, occupying a seat on the sofa that circulates the table of the establishment in which we stop. A restaurant that apparently works for twenty-four hours. Boston is asleep in a sepulchral silence, the kind that happens at the end of the night and until the beginning of dawn, but this is perhaps one of the few places that it is precious for nighttime customers. “Sit yourself.”

It's disconcerting to be escorted somewhere by an armed man, but I don't think it's a good idea to dispute about it, so I take a seat in front of the table with a checkered lining and sink into the excessively soft sofa of a worn red leather.

Without seeming too excited about the idea, Colton sits next to me a moment later. He presses a napkin on his nose, wiping it from the blood in the best way he can. The good news is that at least the bleeding has ceased.

"I'm not hungry," he says.

"That's your problem,