First line in the paper they’ve circled ‘Do not’ in red ink. Some kind of kitsch ‘Do not worry, the news will still keep happening even after we’re gone’ local-paper bullshit non-story. A tiny word is marked under a photo. Part of the credit. It’s the word, ‘Talk’. Then the word, ‘Panic’ is half ringed to form the word, ‘Pan’. That was a story about panic-buying of a particular grade of ammunition, now that the manufacturer has gone out of business. A short piece on the autumn equinox clock-change has the word, ‘Night’ picked out in broad red marker. Later in the same article it’s an ‘Or’ that’s ringed. Story about an Iraqi kid getting the best grades in the local school with the word, ‘boy’ used. And then, at the very bottom of the page, a piece on the annual elk hunt. It mentions quotas and stats from the national wildlife survey. There’s a quote from Benny Björnmossen himself, and another from Sven Edlund, the snobby dentist. But it’s not a word that’s circled, it’s the bloodied, bent neck of a cow elk. An argument booms through the wall from next door. I hold the paper out at arm’s length.

Do not talk Pan Night or boy…and then the dead elk image.

Acid in my stomach. Someone’s making a threat with this front page. Is this Ragnar Falk’s work? Doesn’t seem like his style but maybe that’s the whole point? Or one of the other three-thousand hill-town locals who received a copy of the paper. More, maybe because it was the last one ever printed.

I double-lock my door and check my apartment. Under the bed, in the wardrobe, in the bathroom, in the box room. I pull the blinds and the racket from next door intensifies. High-pitched screams and low-pitched staccato yelling.

The sinister threat of the annotated newspaper front page and Aunt Ida’s Halloween card sit next to each other by the sink. The boy? Which boy are they referring to? Sebastian? Or do they think I have a son? A boyfriend?

A knock on my door and I almost jump out of my skin.

I just stare at it. I do not move.

Another knock. Impatient.

‘Hello?’

A woman’s voice.

I open the door. It’s the tenant from next door. I half expect her to have a black eye but she looks fine. Coat, bobble hat, leather handbag. And her son hanging onto her leg.

‘Can you do me a huge favour, Moa.’

‘Tuva.’

‘Sorry. Just this once, I promise. I’ll pay you back.’

‘How much?’