The fire in the tiled stove was burning much too fiercely. Malin was well aware of it, but didn’t do anything about it. Not at first. She had become both numbed and over-sensitive, as if her nerves were on the surface of her skin while at the same time her capacity for dealing with a crisis had virtually disappeared. Panic destroyed the body in so many different ways. The brain was worst affected, the ability to think. And it just went on and on, Malin had realised. The panic never ended, it had become part of her everyday life.

She sat there in front of the heat and watched as the flames found their way out of the stove, yellow-red monsters briefly licking the white tiles before withdrawing equally quickly. Only when she heard her son’s voice behind her did she react.

‘Mummy – that’s dangerous!’

Malin hurried over and closed the doors of the stove. The fire would soon be suffocated. Just like everything else.

The boy wrapped his arms around her legs.

‘I’m boooored, Mummy!’

She moved across the room, dragging him behind her. He was too old to carry on like this, but it was a game he’d loved when he was little. Clinging to her legs as she walked.

‘Have you asked Hedvig what she’s up to? She might want to do something that’s fun.’

She had no idea what time it was; maybe the children ought to go to bed soon. But all that kind of thing – like bedtime routines – had become so difficult to maintain. Rules they had stuck to for years had disappeared, been forgotten. Or rather cast aside. So many things from their old life had no relevance in this new one.

Not when they were permanently terrified.

Her son let go and slumped down on the floor.

‘Hedvig doesn’t want to play,’ he informed her. ‘She wants to read.’

Please don’t let the books run out. Malin didn’t know what her daughter would do if that happened; reading was the only thing keeping Hedvig sane. Without them she would become like her mother. A wreck.

‘I was thinking of doing some baking,’ she said to her son. ‘Would you like to help me?’

She didn’t actually want his help, she just wanted to be alone for an hour, quarter of an hour, five minutes, one minute. But it never happened. One of the children was always there, around her, on top of her. All day every day.

The boy’s face lit up.

‘Cinnamon buns!’ he said.

‘Not today, Max. Today we’re going to make teacakes.’