George is somewhere near her – she knows she doesn’t need to take care of him; he can take care of himself. In the midst of all the chaos she feels such unbelievable relief to have him there. Jacob, on the other hand, seems drugged or in shock and barely able to make his way forward.

‘Come on now!’ she whispers, pushing him between two trailers. ‘You have to move, Jacob.’

She sees George stop right ahead and peek out around one of the trucks, towards the blinking lights. He waves to them, and Klara drags Jacob.

‘We can go straight across the parking lot and into McDonald’s without them seeing us,’ he says. ‘Hide in plain sight, you know? They won’t be expecting us to just sit down calmly in a McDonald’s?’

Perhaps he’s right, it would be much worse if they were caught out here among the trucks without being able to explain how they got there. Maybe the restaurant is the best option. ‘Okay, let’s go.’

It’s barely six o’clock in the morning, so there’s no rush at McDonald’s. Beside them, the room is almost empty, just three other people sit alone with hot coffee. Through the windows Klara sees the blue lights flashing, attracting the attention of the other guests who raise their eyes to see what’s going on. Long, bright beams dance across the wet asphalt. Police officers search under and between the trucks with flashlights.

‘Fuck,’ says Klara. ‘I don’t have a good feeling about this.’

George turns to her. ‘They seem to know what they’re looking for.’

Jacob has gone over to the counter and frozen mid-step in terror. Klara goes to him and puts a hand on his shoulder. ‘Come on, Jacob,’ she says, stressed. ‘Let’s go.’

He points to a table where the first edition of the morning newspaper lies. The front page makes her almost lose her balance, and she grips Jacob’s shoulder so as not to stumble. The page consists of three passport pictures in a row under the heading:

Swedes Wanted for Terrorism

The pictures are of Klara, Jacob and George.

‘Fuck,’ George whispers behind her. ‘We have to get out of here.’

They stumble out and across the parking lot, with the semi and the blue lights at their back, half running, half sneaking so as not to draw attention. When they manage to find cover behind a car wash, Klara glances back at the entrance to the McDonald’s to see two cops heading inside.

‘Just in the nick of time,’ she says. ‘Lucky we didn’t sit down and drink a milkshake.’

They head down a small slope of wet grass, towards an uneven road that passes between flat, empty fields and darkness. Somewhere near the bottom they see a bridge. Klara takes out the phone she bought in Duisburg and opens the map app.