“We’ve been sending you letters,” said one of the white shirts, holding out a pile of documents for Ove.

“Many letters,” said the other white shirt and made a note in a pad.

“You never answered,” said the first, as if he were reprimanding a dog.

Ove just stood there, defiant.

“Very unfortunate, this,” said the other, with a curt nod at what used to be Ove’s house.

Ove nodded.

“The fire brigade says it was caused by a harmless electrical fault,” continued the first white shirt robotically, pointing at a paper in his hand.

Ove felt a spontaneous objection to his use of the word “harmless.”

“We’ve sent you letters,” the second man repeated, waving his pad. “The municipal boundaries are being redrawn.”

“The land where your house stands will be developed for a number of new constructions.”

“The land where your house stood,” corrected his partner.

“The council is willing to purchase your land at the market price,” said the first man.

“Well . . . a market price now that there’s no longer a house on the land,” clarified the other.

Ove took the papers. Started reading.

“You don’t have much of a choice,” said the first.

“This is not so much your choice as the council’s,” said the other.

The first man tapped his pen impatiently against the papers, pointing at a line at the bottom where it said “signature.”

Ove stood at his gate and read their document in silence. He became aware of an ache in his breast; it took a long, long time before he understood what it was.

Hate.

He hated those men in white shirts. He couldn’t remember having hated anyone before, but now it was like a ball of fire inside. Ove’s parents had bought this house. Ove had grown up here. Learned to walk. His father had taught him everything there was to know about a Saab engine here. And after all that, someone at a municipal authority decided something else should be built here. And a man with a round face sold insurance that was not insurance. A man in a white shirt prevented Ove from putting out a fire and now two other white shirts stood here talking about a “market price.”

But Ove really did not have a choice. He could have stood there until the sun had completely risen, but he could not change the situation.

So he signed their document. While keeping his fist clenched in his pocket.

He left the plot where once his parental home had stood, and he never looked back. Rented a little room from an old lady in town. Sat and stared desolately at the wall all day. In the evening he went to work. Cleaned the train compartments. In the morning, he and the other workers were told not to go to their usual changing rooms; they had to go back to the head office to pick up new sets of work clothes.