It had been just one month ago. She’d been sitting on the floor and looking at her dead mother’s face. Her little sister, Mai, hadn’t yet understood what was happening. She’d thought her mother was sleeping, because that was what Pim had told her.

But she hadn’t been sleeping. She’d had the fever. Dengue fever.

Her mother had had bloodshot eyes and large bruises on her body. She’d screamed from the pain in her muscles and joints.

That one time, Pim had wished her father were there. She’d wished him there so that she could be allowed to be a child again.

Just a child.

She had wished that a grown-up would come in and make everything right. But it had been pointless to even think about it, a fruitless hope. Her father had abandoned them long ago. He had a new family; he couldn’t come to her aid then.

And when her mother had refused to go to the hospital, Pim’s last hope had vanished.

“It’s best for me to be here,” her mother had said.

“But they can help you.”

“Help costs money, Pim.”

“But...”

“Promise me instead...that you’ll take care of Mai.” Her mother had coughed out the sentences while frantically clawing at her arm until the fluid-filled blister had popped.

“No... I can’t do it myself!” Pim had said, starting to cry. “She’s only eight years old.”

“You’re fifteen. You can do it.”

Now Pim looked down at her hands, thinking of Mai and wondering what her little sister was doing that very moment. Was she sleeping? Did she feel alone or scared? But Pim was only going to be gone for five days, and soon, soon she would be home with Mai again.

Her lower lip started to quiver and she suddenly felt another, stronger pain—this one from the pills in her stomach.

I have to make sure I get home again, she thought.

* * *

Gunnar Öhrn sat at the desk in his office with his legs spread apart. He stretched his arms up and grunted when he felt the twinge in his shoulders. The pain went all the way up to what used to be his hairline. He felt too heavy and old, but he pushed those thoughts away. He didn’t have time to worry about things like that.

Investigation reports were piled on the bookshelf behind him. He was going to start somewhere in the middle, being effective and focused, reading carefully to shake off this feeling of tiredness.

He picked up folder after folder, flipping through a couple of documents in each one, but hadn’t gotten any further than this when there was a knock at the door. Anders Wester appeared with two coffee mugs in his hands.

“Did I wake you?” he said.

“What do you mean, wake me?” Gunnar asked.

“It looked like you were sleeping.”