“Please open, door,” he said, and shook it, but the door was a good one that could not be so easily shaken, despite its worn-down appearance. “Is this the best you can do?,” it seemed to be taunting him. “It’s going to take more than this, you feeble hunter.” Palm started to shake the door harder and harder. He shook the door like a Tatort detective gone mad shaking the shoulder of a criminal who won’t reveal where he hid his kidnapping victim. Palm became heated.

“Open up, you goddamn piece of shit,” he croaked more than shouted; his voice was no longer used to being loud. “Or I’ll blow you away,” he added for good measure.

The padlock held, but the door burst in two.

Palm exhaled and wiped his forehead with his sleeve. He turned on his flashlight, stepped over what was left of the door, and climbed the flight of stairs that led all the way to the top of the tower. He reached into his pants pocket to make sure he’d brought the sharpest knife he owned.

We were still waiting as Palm ran up the hospital corridor toward us an hour later. At the same time a doctor came toward us from the other direction. He was in no hurry, walking slowly to gain time before it abruptly stood still.

The winded Palm and the unhurried doctor reached us simultaneously. Selma, the optician, and I stood up, because an invisible person said, “Please rise.”

“She didn’t make it,” the doctor said.

Selma put her hand over her mouth, the optician fell back into his chair and buried his face in his hands, and Palm opened his fist, which we now noticed was covered with blood.

A small piece of meat fell onto the linoleum. It fell right in front of the doctor’s white shoe, which made a strange noise, a kind of squeak.

“What in heaven’s name is that?” the doctor shouted. How could he have known: Who recognizes a bat’s heart at first glance?

It was raining on Elsbeth’s funeral. It rained as hard as it had on the day Frederik visited me, and from above, all the unfurled black umbrellas huddling around Elsbeth’s grave looked like a giant ink blot.

I held Selma’s hand in mine. Her shoulders shook with sobs.

“Elsbeth told me that it’s good for the person being buried if it rains on the coffin,” I whispered into Selma’s ear.

Selma looked at me. Her face was swollen and wet. “But not this hard,” she said.