The pillow sighed when he lifted his head up. A mirror and a sink. An empty polished steel table on casters.

He climbed off the gurney and went over to the sink. Turned the water on and put his hand under the tap. Hit the pumping lever of the soap dispenser and scraped the suds from the edge of the sink, cleaning himself up as best he could. The water eddying down the drain was pink. He grabbed a paper towel, wet it and rubbed at his mouth. Grabbed another one and rubbed hard. The blood had dried into his stubble, so he smeared soap between his fingers and lathered up his lips and chin. Scooped up hot water and splashed his face.

There was a folded sheet on the gurney, a white square against the red mattress cover. He took it and draped it over his injured arm, which he held against his chest to hide the bloodstains on his shirt. He opened the sliding door a crack, then stepped out.

With the sheet folded over his bent arm, he hurried down the corridor like some kind of shabby waiter. He exited through the front doors, walked around the hospital building and angled across a lawn. A footpath skirted the hospital grounds; he followed it until he glimpsed the car park. At that point, he turned off into the woods.

Old planters had been scattered across a gravel patch. Decorative shrubberies of various kinds were growing into one another; their clustered blooms shone with remarkably vivid colours and behind them a pallet stood on end like a mysterious portal to a different forest space. He sat down on the edge of one of the planters to catch his breath.

‘Lennart?’

His name pronounced in Norwegian. The rise of the final syllable. He looked up to see a man striding up the hill.

Abraham stopped and studied him. One of his eyelids drooped like a crooked blind.

‘We should get going.’

*

It was stuffy and dark inside the motorhome. Drawn curtains covered its small windows, another blocked out all but the faintest trace of light from the driver’s cab. He raised his chin slightly and sniffed the air without making a sound. Then he removed his glasses and waited for his eyes to adjust to the gloom.

The old lady was lying under a blanket, watching him.

‘Come sit down, Lennart.’

He squeezed in behind the table and sat down on the bunk, by her feet. A small, gloved hand rose slowly, not toward him, toward the curtain. In the light that streamed in, blazing a trail across a face crinkled by deep wrinkles, he could see how thin her hair was. How thin it had become. He could almost count the individual hairs above her forehead.