Of course Kennet knew all these changes had come to pass and hadn’t forgotten them… He’d just never lived with them. Likewise, he knew Nalle was dead, but it took walking into the bedroom Nalle once shared with Little for the idea to sink a little further into Kennet’s heart. He stood a long time before the maps pinned on the wall. Just as Marta had said, Little had been a meticulous field general. Lines of blue tacks connected by string traced Kennet’s path across Belgium, Luxembourg, Germany and Austria. A similar green line traced Nalle’s route up the boot of Italy, stopping abruptly in the Apennines, at Monte Castello. Minor’s tours were tracked with red tacks in the Pacific.

Kennet sat on Nalle’s pristine bed. Untouched since the fall of 1944, when they’d last been together. Nalle’s old, battered teddy bear propped against the pillows. The picture of Ingrid on his bureau. All the personal possessions exactly where they’d been left. Lovingly dusted and undisturbed.

Kennet picked up another framed photograph: all four Fiskare sons on the dock, each holding up their catch. Nalle’s handwritten caption: Fiskare boys, 1938. He’d written each of their names beneath their bare feet. Kennet. Erik. Björn. Emil.

How like Nalle to use their real, proper names. He was the best of the catch.

And the one that got away.

Looking at the photograph, Kennet got a little teary, but it felt gratuitous. Almost phony. Nothing made sense in this house. Nalle was gone but his things seemed to be waiting for him. Marta was kissing Emil good morning and Emil was rubbing Marta’s belly, his eyes soft with happiness. Some strange, deep-voiced man was constantly walking around the place and then rudely revealing himself to be Little. Trudy had boobs and holy mackerel, Kirsten Lund was rather lovely.

What the hell happened while I was gone?

How dare things change like this?

It frustrated him that he had trouble speaking. More specifically, he struggled with civilized speech. Participating nicely in polite conversation. He’d grown appallingly used to cursing every other word, in between drags on a cigarette. Plus he was a little horrified to discover just how much he smoked. How much he relied on the habit to pass the time, occupy his hands and soothe his nerves. His fingers fidgeted constantly, looking for a cigarette, a trigger or a task.

He weirdly missed someone telling him what to do every minute of every day, and wasn’t that a kick in the head? The kind of thing he and Hook could have a big laugh over, but Hook was gone. His talisman was in Kennet’s pocket now, the fish hook solemnly transferred from Emil’s pocket. At night, Kennet put it on his bedside table, next to two flattened copper pennies—one from the day Astrid arrived in Clayton, the other from the day she left.