I’m struck by the sight of it. The sky stings my eyes, and I get the sense of a negative image: a horse, black in the bright sky, glowing white against black. Everything’s giving me déjà vu these days.

Mummy, I want see the pony. Is this what Emma keeps talking about?

I knock again hard enough to peel the skin back from my knuckles. “What’s your name?”

“Marit,” she croaks.

“I’m Nina.”

I glance up the road. Still a ghost town. Where the hell has everyone gone? Maybe they’re all hiding in their houses like Hugh.

Up in Jo’s living area, the curtains are open, but the lights are off inside. I know like I did yesterday that no one is here.

“You’re the lady, aren’t you?” Her English isn’t as halting now. “Lady whatever, up at the big house.”

“Yep.” I don’t know why, but that makes me smile. “Lady Whatever. How about a cup of tea at the big house instead of here?”

I reach to help her. She shrugs me off, rubbing her hands together, sniffing hard against her tremors.

When I start off through the village, she follows.

“You’re American,” she says behind me. Her voice is a little too loud, like it takes blunt force to get the words out.

“I am. I’ve got dual citizenship, but yes.”

“They don’t hate you here, for starting the war?”

“Well.” I let out a surprised laugh but don’t turn to look at her. “I didn’t start the war. That I know of.”

“It’s difficult for Americans in Norway now. Even though they left the States for a reason, you know? I feel bad for them, but I don’t say anything.”

I try my best not to show my relief at how much she’s talking now. Talking is good. Talking is alive.

“Maybe I should stand up for them,” she goes on. “Nils is better about that. He’ll speak up, get between people and—”

She goes abruptly silent, then walks more quickly until she’s ahead of me, that keening noise rising from her throat again. I hear her gulp around it, not quite smothering it.

“Nils was in the tent?” My voice is careful as still water.

“And Christian. My brother. My little…” She says something in her language. An expletive, I think.

She leans down, fingers taut against her legs like she’s trying to rip off her kneecaps.

“Almost there.” I point at Alder House.

Something about the sight of it makes her shake her head.

“Thank you,” she says. She’s limping now.

My mind races ahead to our first aid kit, the best place to clean her feet, the warmest spot in the house.