He breathes out. In the midst of that inferno of shaking and yelling
and the chilling scream of the train’s brakes, he feels a deep relief. At last.
To Ove, the moments that follow are elongated as if time itself has applied its brakes and made everything around him travel in slow motion.
The explosion of sounds is muted into a low hiss in his ears,
the train approaching so slowly that it’s as if it’s being pulled along by two decrepit oxen.
The headlights flash despairingly at him. And in the interval between two of the flashes, while he isn’t blinded,
he finds himself establishing eye contact with the train driver.
He can’t be more than twenty years old. One of those who still gets called “the puppy” by his older colleagues.
Ove stares into the puppy’s face. Clenches his fists in his pockets as if he’s cursing himself for what he’s about to do.
But it can’t be helped, he thinks. There’s a right way of doing things. And a wrong way.
So the train is perhaps fifteen yards away when Ove swears with irritation
and, as calmly as if he were getting up to fetch himself a cup of coffee,
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