Lennart opened the door and thudded down the steps of the motorhome. They were parked on a mountain plateau covered in rocks and gravel. Grete was gazing out across the water from her wheelchair, toward the sun hiding behind a thin frieze of clouds by the horizon. A scarf covered her head and she had a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. Abraham and Ingvill were sitting on camping chairs on either side of her and the hare was on the ground, its front legs stretched out and its head raised like some kind of sphinx. The eyes that turned to Lennart were completely blind. Like two white pupae. Its nose moved up and down without cease.

He walked to the other side of the motorhome, untied his trousers, took out his rock-hard member and peed while studying the treeless landscape. There was a village by the edge of the bay at the foot of the mountain. A hodge-podge of houses of various hues. Fishing boats along the breakwater. No people. The road that had led them there disappeared like a ribbon into the distance.

*

‘You went to sleep Saturday evening,’ Abraham said, ‘and now it’s Monday night. Or Tuesday morning, to be exact.’

He had his hands in his pockets and slurred his words a little. He was squinting with one eye, but not on account of the sun.

‘What time is it?’

He pulled his hands out of his pockets, pushed back the sleeve of his jacket and checked his wristwatch.

‘Quarter past four. Are you hungry?’

‘Bloody thirsty.’

Abraham stepped into the motorhome; when he came back out, he was carrying a plastic bottle. He twisted off the cap and handed the bottle to Lennart.

‘Where are we?’

‘Varangerhalvøya.’

Abraham nodded toward the sea.

‘See that line way, way out there? That’s Fiskerhalvøya. Or Poluostrov Rybachy as it’s also called. That’s Russia.’

Some way off, a concrete flight of stairs led down into the ground. Lennart pointed to it, but Abraham shook his head.

‘It’s a bit further.’

‘How far?’

‘A few hundred yards that way.’

‘What are we waiting for?’

‘We’ve been waiting for you. For you to wake up.’

‘Sleep well?’ Grete said when he walked over to her.

He made no reply.

‘Aren’t you happy? Now that you’re going to see him?’

He gingerly squeezed his bandage. Then he looked around. Contours of bunkers and demolished sangars. A radio mast.

‘How did you find him anyway?’

‘The paper!’ she said. ‘It said a bear had broken into a cabin. In Jarfjord. Inside, it had trashed the furniture and eaten all the food and guzzled down all the beer. Like Goldilocks! Except in reverse. So Abraham went up there, tracked him down and drove him here.’

‘You drove him here?’