He saw the elderly man trying to push his way past an overturned bookcase on his way into the house.
The suits shouted his name and tried to make him stop, but the elderly man’s wife was screaming out another name.
Their grandchild. Ove rocked on his heels as he watched the embers stealing their way through the grass.
In all honesty he was probably not thinking so much about what he wanted to do, but about what his father would have done.
And as soon as that thought had taken root there was not much choice about it.
He muttered, irritated, looking at his house a last time, instinctively calculating to himself how many hours it had taken to build it.
And then he ran towards the fire. The house was so filled with thick, sticky smoke that it was like being struck in the face with a shovel.
The elderly man struggled to move the fallen bookcase, which was blocking a door.
Ove threw it aside as if it were made of paper and cleared a way up the stairs.
By the time they emerged into the light of dawn, the elderly man was carrying the boy in his soot-covered arms.
Ove had long, bleeding grazes across his chest and arms. The bystanders just ran around panicking, screaming.
The air was pierced by sirens. Uniformed firemen surrounded them.
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