That’s what he said on the nineteenth of June, but the next day he had an appointment at the hospital. Alice only received a​ 86summary, because it was his sister who accompanied him to the doctor. And the doctor said there was nothing they could do, that Einar should go home and make the most of his remaining time. Those were his words, according to the sister’s summary, and in the evening Alice called around the circle and said, “Now we have to hope he manages to get a hospice place.” Afterward, when she’d hung up the phone, she sat for a while staring out into the midsummer darkness, and without realizing it she hummed, “I get so happy when the sun is shining.”

A few days later, Einar stopped drinking schnapps. He had no more thirst for schnapps but he wanted his cheroot, and the anti-anxiety drugs. So he sat, with cheroot and water glass, skin and bone, in his kitchen, looking from the dear cat to the feeder outside the window while his sister tended to his daily needs. Alice appeared at regular intervals in the front doorway, dressed in a black turtleneck sweater, menthols in her purse. Her hair was neatly gathered at her nape, her feet large, a bit like a crow’s, thought Einar, when the Midsummer’s Eve bonfires left only Alice to help him use the bathroom. He had to pee all the time, and here’s what she said the next morning: “Everything runs right through Einar.”

On the twenty-eighth of June, Einar had a birthday party, propped up in an armchair with some outdoor cushions. He received presents and wishes for the future, he received a piece of layer cake, and from a distant acquaintance whom Alice had called up, he received a preprinted card with the word congratulations on the front in gold glitter. I understand that you’ve been struggling with your health, the acquaintance had​ 87written on the card, but I’m sure it’ll all turn out fine. Doctors nowadays are so clever. Einar read the card and tucked it under the glass of water that later would run right through him.