“It’s okay,” Kerstin repeated.

Sandra struggled to find a way to keep the conversation going.

“So you’re a listener. Does that mean you don’t talk much yourself?”

“Exactly.”

“Why is that? Perhaps you’re shy?”

“No, I wouldn’t say that. Just don’t have anything to say.”

The conversation continued hesitantly without anything really being said. The receiver was silent for long stretches. But there was something about this woman that awoke Sandra’s interest more than usual. The sad, restrained tone in her voice. Her unwillingness to talk at all and the courage it must have taken for her to do so anyway.

“I notice that you find it difficult to talk about yourself,” said Sandra. “So I have to say it’s great that you are doing it anyway.”

“I’ve barely said anything,” said Kerstin, with what might be a small laugh in her voice.

“You will,” said Sandra encouragingly. “We’re getting to know each other. Creating mutual trust. That takes time. It’ll be easier next time you call.”

“You think I should call again?”

“I definitely think so. Sometimes you need to be the person in focus. Particularly in your own life. If you don’t think it’s working well with me you can request to speak to someone else.”

“It’s okay. I might call again then.”

“Do. Take care for now.”

“Thanks for taking my call,” said Kerstin.

Then it was over. It had been a bit of an ordeal, mostly because Sandra herself wasn’t especially inventive when it came to topics of conversation. That yoke didn’t normally rest on her shoulders. Strictly speaking, they hadn’t talked about anything, yet strangely enough Sandra was looking forward to a potential next time. She assumed there was a tragedy behind the sadness in Kerstin’s voice, something weighing her down that would soon enough bubble up to the surface. It awoke Sandra’s curiosity, and she hoped she would be a part of it when it happened.

10

Jeanette

IT WAS A rowdy afternoon by the East Gate in Visby. Some lads were being loud and the police had been by several times to try and make them see reason. They rarely detained anyone—the gang that hung out there by the benches was mostly harmless. But sometimes things got heated, and this was one of those occasions.

Jeanette was having one of her worse days. The anxiety was like a cancer in her stomach, and she knew that she had been irresponsible to mix sedatives with alcohol. Now she was dizzy and felt bad. She sat swaying on the bench with her hands over her ears. She simply hoped the racket would stop so that they could all have some peace and quiet in the spring sunshine.

It seemed she was the only one who thought that. The two at loggerheads with each other—about a negligible sum of money, which was what it was almost always about—had their fists clenched, ready to fight. The others—two women and around ten men—were trying to talk sense into them and keep them apart. Jeanette kept to herself, and didn’t have the energy to engage with them—she didn’t really feel that she belonged there.