Then he pulls himself together and goes on his inspection tour.
Just because he’s dying today doesn’t mean that the vandals should be given free rein.
When he comes back to his house, he pushes his way through the snow and opens the door to the shed.
It smells of mineral spirits and mold in there, exactly as it should in a shed.
He steps over the Saab’s summer tires and moves the jars of unsorted screws out of the way.
Squeezes past the workbench, careful not to knock over the jars of mineral spirits with brushes in them.
Lifts aside the garden chairs and the globe barbecue. Puts away the rim wrench and snatches up the snow shovel.
Weighs it a bit in his hand, the way one might do with a two-handed sword. Stands there in silence, scrutinizing it.
When he comes out of the shed with the shovel, the cat is sitting in the snow again, right outside his house.
Ove glares in amazement at its audacity. Its fur is thawing out, dripping. Or what remains of its fur.
There are more bald patches than fur on that creature. It also has a long scar running along one eye, down across its nose.
If cats have nine lives, this one is quite clearly working its way through at least the seventh or eighth of them.
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