“Thomas, get away from the window!”

The disciple dropped the curtain abruptly but didn’t move. “They’re coming for us. I know they are. And I’d just like us to have a chance to get outta here.”

“They know all of our faces,” Matthew continued. “We just need to lay low.”

Thomas sighed and his shoulders slumped. He walked defeatedly toward the group and plopped down next to John, who patted his shoulder comfortingly.

“Peter?”

The formerly outspoken leader huddled silently in the corner, his face buried in his knees that were drawn up to his chest. He didn’t move.

“Is he asleep?” Bartholomew asked in a hushed tone.

John shook his head sadly. He knew his friend was hanging by a thread, in the depths of misery and shame.

“Peter,” John tried again. “Peter, come have something to eat. It’s been two days.”

“I don’t deserve to eat,” came the muffled reply. He raised his head and stared straight ahead at nothing in particular. “I deserve to die a traitor’s death.”

His eyes were swollen from weeping and bleary from lack of sleep, as were everyone else’s.

James made a move toward him, but was stopped by his brother. John shook his head again, indicating he was to be left alone. His grief held the added ingredient of betrayal, a sting the others didn’t share.

John looked around the room at his ten friends. The food on the table in the middle of the room went largely untouched. He remembered just days before when the inseparable group of thirteen reclined there together.

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