She showed them to a room at the end of the hall, knocked gently on the door, and went in. They gave her a second to prepare Malin for the visit before following her.

A skinny boy with an IV drip in his arm lay in the hospital bed, his head turned to the wall. Oscar’s mother sat in a chair below an out-of-place poster of a walrus, with her eyes focused on her son.

“Don’t overdo it!” the doctor urged in the doorway, before letting herself out.

“Hi, Malin,” Jeppe said. “Is he asleep?”

Malin shook her head ever so slightly.

“How about you? Did you sleep here at the hospital?”

“On a sofa in the ward’s visitors’ room.”

Trust is an odd element, one of the hardest building blocks of human relationships to fully understand. It demands honesty, reliability, and openness—that much we know. But fundamentally it’s either there or it’s not. Malin Dreyer-Hoff’s trust in Jeppe was gone. Somewhere, somehow in their interactions he had made a misstep, and she had withdrawn. Her wary eyes reminded him how fragile and precarious relationships between people are. Even the walrus over her shoulder scowled at him.

There was a rustle from the door and Mosbæk appeared by the bed. As always, the police psychologist was carrying an overfilled leather bag whose diagonal strap cut across his belly into the plaid fabric of his shirt. His full reddish beard smoldered under the bright hospital lights and he brought with him the scents of autumn woods and vegetable garden.

“Hi, Mosbæk,” Jeppe said. “Nice to see you. This is Oscar and his mother, Malin.”

“Hello.” Mosbæk pulled off his bag and greeted Malin warmly before he pulled a chair over to the bed, elbowing Jeppe and Anette politely but firmly aside.

“Now, if you two go stand in the corner over there, then Oscar and I can have a little peace and quiet.”

Jeppe nodded to his partner, and they withdrew to the far wall, leaving the psychologist alone by the bed.

“That’s better. Who can think or talk with such a crowd around?” He focused on the boy. “I’m Mosbæk, psychologist with the police department. I used to have a first name, but even my wife quit using it, so you can call me Mosbæk too.”

Oscar didn’t respond, just lay still facing the wall.

“The reason I’m here,” Mosbæk continued, “is to make sure that you make a full recovery. The hospital takes care of your body but people are more than flesh and bones, right? I am here to listen to your thoughts. Do you feel like sharing them with me? You don’t have to, it is your choice.”

The boy cautiously turned his head.

“What do you want my thoughts for?”