“I’m...” Marcus feels adrift. At the back of his skull the dull irritable boys’-school feeling of someone pretending not to have a laugh at his expense itches. And he’s got that elbows-on-the-table compulsion, too, has to fight off the urge to throw back the rest of the scotch to — what, prove a point?

Stupid thing to do, so he tamps down the urge. Instead he gnaws his lip, worries his phone in his pocket, says, “Nah. I ain’t staying. Sorry.”