My aunt slowed down, two wild rabbits were sitting in the middle of the road, and as we got closer they started running in front of the car. After a while, at such a low speed, it started to feel awkward to stare straight ahead, so we looked at each other and it felt almost good. She was speaking of a beloved brother, and I was hearing the story of a longed-for father.

Mirza, she said as the rabbits ran out into the dark meadow and we were able to speed up again, he was impatient—status in the criminal world is an addictive drug—and he decided to use his golden egg. The key to making big money in new markets. In Sweden at that time, there was another criminal we grew up with in Shkodër, a man who called himself King Zoltan, who ran all the micro-smuggling routes from here to there. Your father had an idea—his secret weapons stash and Zoltan’s established Balkan route could be merged, together they’d expand and take over even bigger markets when the time was right. I tried to warn him, begged, but your father wasn’t always very good at listening. He moved there, to Sweden—all of you moved there. And I had no idea that a person could feel so lonely. My god, little darling, how I missed you!

My aunt stopped the car and stepped out into the darkness, jumped over the ditch and continued down a small hill. A small river ran there, I could hear it murmuring. She knelt down and rinsed off her face. She must have been tired. Or maybe it was the tension draining out of her. And that’s what continued when she came back, talking, handing over everything to me.

Your father started working for King Zoltan in Sweden; in fact it was Mirza who handled the micro-smuggling, the whole Balkan route. Not big money, five or ten weapons at a time, buy for a hundred dollars each, sell for a thousand dollars, but it was a comfortable, well-to-do living. After a few years, the time was finally right—perfect for taking over the arms trade in several countries using his golden egg. But they were no longer in complete agreement. Zoltan demanded that your father give him all the information about the secret weapons stash, the exact coordinates, before their contract was written as equal partners—he wanted to go there, investigate the place. But Mirza refused to give him more than a few samples, a couple of machine guns every now and then, until everything had been agreed on—the gun stash was his insurance policy. That’s why one day they came to your home and you saw and heard your mother and father and sister and brother be executed. When they left the apartment with your father’s computer, you were still in the closet, and they had what they came for. Or so they thought. False information. Your father had made sure that the directions on his computer weren’t the real ones—he sent them on a wild goose chase after his death. The real directions were hidden elsewhere. Still lie hidden elsewhere.