“Come on, Nasanin,” she adds, taking her sister by the hand and walking away after directing a resentful stare at Ove.
Ove keeps an eye on them as they skulk off. He sees the pregnant woman standing in her doorway, smiling at him before the girls run into her house.
The three-year-old turns and waves cheerfully at him. Her mother also waves.
Ove closes the door. He stands in the hall again.
Stares at the warm container of chicken with rice and saffron as one might look at a box of nitroglycerin.
Then he goes into the kitchen and puts it in the fridge.
Not that he’s habitually inclined to go around eating any old food provided by unknown, foreign kids on his doorstep.
But in Ove’s house one does not throw away food. As a point of principle.
He goes into the living room. Shoves his hands in his pockets. Looks up at the ceiling.
Stands there a good while and thinks about what sort of concrete-wall anchor bolt would be most suitable for the job.
He stands there squinting until his eyes start hurting.
He looks down, slightly confused, at his dented wristwatch.
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