I wish I had Sean's economy with words that I could get away on half a dozen words to answer a question. Sean Kendrick is not Father Mooneyham and I don't need to tell him all my sins, even if I think that he could absolve me in half an hour on horseback, charging together until all I know is sea and wind.

As I find a table, I realize I'm still holding Sean's hand and it's reluctantly that I let go so we can sit. There's an airlessness here that feels like Saint Columba's in its quiet, even without long, lean statues of goggle-eyed men and horses to inspect my soul.

"I'm going to learn how to use this wretched thing," I say. "Or...Or I'll eat nothing but beans for a month." It's an awful threat, made more awful by the fact that if I remain jobless, it will come true.