She looks utterly unchastened by that. “My name is Lena. I’m a journalist at the local newspaper and, well...” she begins, and then offers her hand.
Ove looks at her hand. And looks at her. “I don’t want anything,” he says again.
“What?” “I suppose you’re selling subscriptions. But I don’t want one.”
She looks puzzled. “Right... Well, actually... I’m not selling the paper. I write for it.
I’m a journalist,” she repeats slowly, as if there were something wrong with him.
I still don’t want anything,” Ove reiterates as he starts shooing her out the garage door.
“But I want to talk to you, Ove!” she protests and starts trying to force herself back inside.
Ove waves his hands at her as if trying to scare her away by shaking an invisible rug in front of her.
“You saved a man’s life at the train station yesterday! I want to interview you about it,” she calls out excitedly.
Clearly she’s about to say something else when she notices that she’s lost Ove’s attention. His gaze falls on something behind her.
His eyes turn to slits. “I’ll be damned,” he mumbles.
“Yes... I’d like to ask y—,” she begins sincerely, but Ove has already squeezed past her and started running towards the white Škoda
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