It’s half past eight by the time they drive past Södertälje, above water and rocks and trees, and then in among the warehouses, office complexes and grey, dreary industrial areas that start popping up more and more frequently. Small pieces of ice beat ever more intensely against the windshield as Jacob opens his eyes.

‘How long did I sleep?’ he asks.

‘On and off since Vättern,’ George says, looking at him in the rear-view mirror.

How can he still hold his eyes open? The first night they were in the truck and then he drove basically without stopping from Malmö. He looks a little pale, but otherwise unfazed.

‘Almost there,’ George says. ‘I just wish I knew what the hell was happening. All I know is that she wants to meet in some goddamn depressing suburb where she got some help from your Arabic teacher. And now she’s turned off her phone.’

Jacob bends forward to look at Yassim. His head is resting against the window, his mouth half open.

‘Is he alive?’ he asks worriedly.

George throws a glance at Yassim. ‘He doesn’t seem easy to kill,’ George says. ‘Besides, he’s spent more time awake on this trip than you have.’

George has turned off the highway now and slowed down. They drive by wholesalers and car washes, bare trees and empty streets; ten-storey apartment buildings rise up like towers on the horizon.

‘That’s our destination,’ George says. He appears to shiver. ‘This trip just keeps getting more and more depressing.’

*

Yassim wakes up as they slowly roll into the mix of ageing concrete apartment buildings and playgrounds, bare bushes with white berries, all lit by yellow streetlights waving in the wind. Jacob can see his eyes light up when they look at each other in the rear-view mirror, but he grimaces as he turns towards him.

‘You’re in pain,’ Jacob says. ‘I’m worried about you.’ Jacob leans forward and puts his hand on an unexpectedly warm cheek. ‘You have a fever. We need someone to look at your wound.’

Yassim smiles weakly. ‘It’s fine. We have more important things to think about now.’

‘I think we’re there,’ George says. ‘Or as close as we can get.’

They park the car by a school. Low buildings in yellow brick, like barracks, a playground with broken swings, basketball courts without a net, a dark, empty parking lot.

Yassim grimaces as he gets out of the car, but won’t let Jacob support him. Instead, he gently pats his cheek and stares into his eyes. ‘I can handle it, Jacob. You don’t have to take care of me.’

He doesn’t get further than that before the muffled sound of an engine revving reaches their ears, and they turn to the entrance of the parking lot where two black, unmarked vans roll in with their headlights off.

‘What the hell is it now?’ George whispers.