“Yes?” demands Ove. The youth looks like he can’t come up with an answer. He fiddles with a newspaper and a letter.
And that’s when Ove notices that it’s the same youth who argued with him about that bicycle a few days ago, by the storage shed.
The bicycle the youth said he was going to “fix.” Of course Ove knows what that means.
“Fix” means “steal and sell on the Internet” to these rascals, that’s the long and short of it.
The youth looks, if possible, even less thrilled about recognizing Ove than vice versa.
He looks a little like a waiter sometimes does, when he’s undecided about whether to serve you your food or take it into the kitchen and spit on it.
The lad looks coolly at Ove before reluctantly handing the mail over with a grumpy “There y’go.”
Ove accepts it without taking his eyes off him. “Your mailbox is mashed, so I was gonna give you these,” says the youth.
He nods at the folded-double pile of junk that used to be Ove’s mailbox
until the Lanky One who can’t back up with a trailer backed his trailer into it —then nods at the letter and newspaper in Ove’s hand.
Ove looks down at them. The newspaper is one of those local rags they hand out for nothing
even when one puts up a sign quite expressly telling them to do no such bloody thing.
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