He lowered his gaze, let it rest on the table. There was a phone on it. A blister pack lying foil-side up. The heavy, black plastic sunglasses with the gold details on the temples.

‘How are things with you?’

Before he could respond, the door to the cab opened. He could hear Abraham climbing in behind the wheel through the curtain. Shortly thereafter, the diesel engine rumbled to life. Grete had to raise her voice to be heard now; it made it shrill.

‘You look so sad, Lennart. Why are you sad?’

He shook his head.

‘Don’t be sad.’

Smiling made her cough. She closed her eyes; her chest heaved. At the end, it sounded like a dry laugh. She pushed herself upright with her hands and then sat propped up against the wall, watching him. Her yellow eyes with their piercing pupils were deeply embedded in the swollen folds of her skin.

There was movement under the blanket. Ripples running this way and that. He let his hand slip in under the edge. All activity ceased instantly. He wiggled his fingers and soon felt the cold touch of a tiny nose. He pulled his hand out, shaped like a bowl; a mouse was sitting in it. A wood mouse, with black seed-pearl eyes. He slowly tilted his hand. The little one stiffened and then poured down his thumb to sit on the back of his hand, poised to keep running. When he turned his hand again, the mouse had had enough and jumped off. It scuttled up the blanket and paused for a second on Grete’s stomach. Then it was gone.

‘How many do you have?’

She made a resigned hand gesture.

‘Why are they not with Skabram?’

‘It’s no help.’

‘You have to give it time.’

She started coughing again and while she coughed, he sat with his head bowed, studying his arm. The blood had seeped through the terrycloth wrapping, spotting the sheet.

‘I think I need to lie down for a minute.’

‘We have a lot to talk about, Lennart.’

‘Not now. My head. I’m not feeling well.’

‘You’ve been asleep for ten years.’

‘I feel like I need another ten.’

‘Help him. I don’t want him looking like this.’

Only now did he realise there was a person further in, watching him. It was Ingvill. But she was not a child any more; she was a woman. She was holding an animal in her arms; when she set it down on the floor, he realised it was a very old hare.

The terrycloth towels were stiff with dried blood and the innermost one didn’t want to come off. After announcing that it was stuck to his wound, she ripped it off with a firm tug.

‘Did it hurt?’ she said without looking at him.