“Thirty,” she says impatiently. “Thirty?! And no driver’s license? Is there something wrong with you?”
She groans, holding one hand over her nose and snapping her fingers with irritation in front of Ove’s face.
“Focus a bit, Ove! The hospital! You have to drive us to the hospital!”
Ove looks almost offended. “What do you mean, ‘us’?
You’ll have to call an ambulance if the person you’re married to can’t open a window without falling off a ladder—”
“I already did! They’ve taken him to the hospital. But there was no space for me in the ambulance.
And now because of the snow, every taxi in town is occupied and the buses are getting bogged down everywhere!”
Scattered streams of blood are running down one of her cheeks. Ove clamps his jaws so hard that he starts gnashing his teeth.
You can’t trust bloody buses. The drivers are always drunks,he says quietly,
his chin at an angle that might make someone believe he was trying to hide his words on the inside of his shirt collar.
Maybe she notices the way his mood shifts as soon as she mentions the word “bus.”
Maybe not. Anyway, she nods, as if this in some way clinches it. “Right, then. So you have to drive us.”
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