The ones who said Sonja was going to die after the coach accident,
the ones who refused to take responsibility afterwards and the ones who refused to hold others responsible.
The ones who would not build an access ramp at the school. The ones who did not want to let her work.
The ones who went through paragraphs of small print to root out some clause meaning they wouldn’t have to pay out any insurance money.
The ones who wanted to put her in a home. They had all had the same empty eyes.
As if they were nothing but shiny shells walking around, grinding away at normal people and pulling their lives to pieces.
But when Ove says that thing about there being nothing good on TV, he sees a little twitch at the temple of the white shirt.
A flash of frustration, perhaps. Amazed anger, possibly. Pure disdain, very likely.
It’s the first time Ove has noticed that he’s managed to get under the skin of the white shirt. Of any white shirt at all.
The man snaps his jaws shut, turns around, and starts to walk away.
Not with the measured, objective steps of a council employee in full control, but something else.
With anger. Impatience. Vengefully. Ove can’t remember anything having made him feel so good in a long, long time.
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