"She'll make Brenton Reef by six," Silvino said.
"Fifty-eight minutes past five, if Celestine has anything to do with it."
He nodded. Neither of them said anything for a while.
"Tiago called me," he said eventually. "My manager. Boston called him. They got your letter. They want to talk to me tomorrow at nine."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be sorry." He shrugged. "Maybe they fire me. Maybe they read your letter and they think, well, it's the law, what's he supposed to do. I don't know. Fatima says she'd rather have me unemployed than have me sit at the kitchen table every night looking like I did Saturday." He looked down at his hands. "I'm going to call my son tonight. I don't know what I'm going to say yet."
"Tell him what you told me."
"Maybe." He was quiet. "Maybe."
Her phone buzzed. It was a text from a number in Scotland, which she had saved on Sunday morning as HAMISH MUM. It said: He wants to know did the boat go. He says tell the skipper not to be daft. He says he's not angry. He says he's coming back in the spring to do his Yachtmaster and the skipper promised to sign his sea time and he's holding him to it.