He walked through the woods aimlessly. But then there it was. A red construction trailer wedged among the spruce trees. Its chimney like a periscope. Black, empty windows.

He got out the key that hung on a nail under the wooden deck, climbed the steel mesh stairs, entered and shut the door behind him.

Everything seemed familiar yet strange. The ear protectors that had been hooked onto a pair of rugged, brown ram’s horns that cast long, pointed shadows on the wall. The glasses and plates in the washing-up bucket. The white bell shade and motionless glass prisms of the kerosene lamp. A silly miniature gold hat neatly folded from a flattened beer can.

There was an open sleeping bag on the mattress on the lower bunk and a toiletry bag next to the bed. He looked under the bed. There was a suitcase there. When he noticed the clothes in it, he was suddenly terrified. He even walked over to the door, ready to leave. But he stayed.

The whisky bottle was mounted upside down on a stripped wooden log and had a tap. He poured a slug into a coffee cup and sat down at the table. A few maps were scattered on it. A cube of writing notes. He looked at the top one and was relieved to see it wasn’t his handwriting. A shopping list, scribbled in ink. Kerosene. Coffee filter holder. Paper plates. Terminal clamps.

He tore off the note. Picked up the pen but put it back down. Sat there with a smile on his lips. Without drinking, almost without moving. Hours passed. Flies were crawling on the window, but he saw nothing.

Then he suddenly stood up, opened the door and said:

‘Come in.’

It was early morning when they arrived…

It was early morning when they arrived in Dorotea. They parked a few hundred yards from Rune’s house, which they could glimpse at the edge of the forest on the other side of a meadow where a listing maypole stood. A percent sign in the pale light of dawn. Lennart walked down toward the house alone. A brick bungalow with a black concrete tile roof. Two cars were parked in front of the attached garage. A van and an old Saab. A rose inside a cone of transparent plastic wrapping could be seen through the Saab’s rear window. It had been there so long it had withered into a black horror flower. There was a car seat in the back; Lennart stood staring at that for a good while before climbing the front step and knocking on the door. Music was coming from inside. Through the years, we all will be together. He peered in through the textured glass sidelight. The only thing moving in the disorienting sea of refractions was his own face. Hang a shining star upon the highest bough, and have yourself a merry little Christmas now.