“See, our father is Emil, too,” Nalle said.

“And we can’t have another Minor,” Minor said, puffing out his blood-spattered chest. “So we call him Little Emil. Or just Little.”

“I see,” Marta said.

“My real name is Björn,” Nalle said. “But our grandfather was Björn. It means bear. Nalle means little bear.”

“Then why don’t we call him Little,” Little complained.

“Because I’m bigger.”

Marta smiled at Little. “No matter your name, it’s no fun sitting in your spent pennies, now is it?” She took him by the hand and asked the table, “Is there a bathroom downstairs?”

Kennet pointed.

“Now be a gentleman and fetch us a dry pair of trousers? Underpants and socks, too, please.”

Kennet ran into the hall and hit the stairs, scrambling with hands and feet, not wanting a miss a minute of the action. When he returned, Ingrid was washing up Little in the bathroom and Marta had Trudy perched on her wide hip, stirring something hot in a mug. She put the steaming cup in front of Nalle.

“Drink that down, now. It’ll feel good on your throat. Give me those wet clothes, ma’am, and sit down. Catch your breath.” Still holding Trudy with one arm, Marta put a cup of coffee in front of Ingrid. “Milk and sugar, hope that’s all right.” She took the clean clothes from Kennet. “Thank you, dear. Here, Little, straight back in the loo with you. Ma’am, not to be disrespectful, but do you keep a bit of whiskey for cooking?”

The two women regarded each other and Kennet, who was old enough to know Clayton was dry, tasted the unspoken words and the complicit understanding.

“Top shelf of that cabinet,” Ingrid said, pointing. “Way in the back. The bottle says vinegar, but it’s Kentucky Tavern. Kennet, go get her the stepladder.”

Kennet held the baby while Marta retrieved the whiskey. He went on watching, fascinated, as Marta confidently opened drawers and cupboards and found what she wanted on the first try.

“How did you know where the cups and glasses were?” Nalle asked.

“Why, they were right where you’d expect. Most women organize their kitchens the same way. We can walk right in and help each other. Isn’t that right, ma’am?”

“Yes,” Ingrid said. Her expression was a little more composed, but her whole upper body still seemed clenched.

Marta poured some whiskey into a glass, dipped a finger and rubbed it on the baby’s gums. Then she dumped the rest of the booze into Ingrid’s coffee cup. “Waste not, want not.”

All at once, everyone and everything could breathe again. Ingrid’s shoulders came down from her ears. Trudy didn’t stop crying, but the volume of her lament was halved. Nalle stopped coughing. Minor stopped dripping. Little stopped complaining. Kennet pulled his school books toward him and picked up his pencil again.