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.