Some got it and some didn’t. There were also some who got what Ove ended up doing one day in the director’s office, while others didn’t.
It was almost two years after his father’s funeral. Ove had just turned eighteen.
Tom had been caught out stealing money from the cash box in one of the carriages.
Admittedly no one but Ove saw him take it, but Tom and Ove had been the only two people in the carriage when the money went missing.
And, as a serious man from the director’s office explained when Tom and Ove were ordered to present themselves,
no one could believe Ove was the guilty party. And he wasn’t, of course.
Ove was left on a wooden chair in the corridor outside the director’s office.
He sat there looking at the floor for fifteen minutes before the door opened.
Tom stepped outside, his fists so clenched with determination that his skin was bloodless and white on his lower arms.
He kept trying to make eye contact with Ove; Ove just kept staring down at the floor until he was brought into the director’s office.
More serious men in suits were spread around the room.
The director himself was pacing back and forth behind his desk, his face highly colored,
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