We ate a simple meal, bread dipped in oil, wine, some figs. It was what we could afford. Jesus blessed the bread. He tore it into chunks. We watched. No one spoke. "Who is it?" I asked, only because Peter nudged me. "The one I give the bread to," Jesus replied. He handed it to Judas. A drop of oil glistened on the table and sank into it. Here and gone. We did not think it was the Last Supper. We did not know ourselves. Judas left, and it was night.