If Ove had pointed out Tom, it would have been one word against another. But now it was Tom’s words against Ove’s silence.
The next morning he was told by the foreman to empty his locker and present himself outside the director’s office.
Tom stood inside the door of the changing rooms and jeered at him as he was leaving.
“Thief,” hissed Tom. Ove passed him without raising his eyes.
“Thief! Thief! Thief!” one of their younger colleagues, who had testified against Ove,
chanted happily across the changing room, until one of the older men on their shift gave him a slap across the ear that silenced him.
“THIEF!” Tom shouted demonstratively, so loudly that the word was still ringing in Ove’s head several days after.
Ove walked out into the morning air without turning around.
He took a deep breath. He was furious, but not because they had called him a thief.
He would never be the sort of man who cared what other men called him.
But the shame of losing a job to which his father had devoted his whole life burned like a red-hot poker in his breast.
He had plenty of time to think his life over as he walked one last time to the office, a bundle of work clothes clutched in his arms.
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