She moved her cursor there and clicked, and in a flash the computer had put up a house there.
Ove looked fairly suspicious about it. Then he made himself comfortable on the plastic box and pointed at another empty space.
Two and a half hours later Parvaneh stomped in angrily and threatened to pull out the plug if they didn’t call it a night at once.
As Ove stood in the doorway getting ready to leave, the seven-year-old carefully tugged at his shirtsleeve
and pointed at a drawing on the wall right next to him.
“That’s your house,” she whispered, as if it was a secret between her and Ove.
Ove nodded. Maybe they weren’t totally worthless after all, those two kids.
He leaves Parvaneh in the parking area, crosses the street, opens the glass door, and steps in.
The café is empty. The fan heater overhead coughs as if it’s full of cigar smoke.
Amel stands behind the counter in a stained shirt, wiping glasses with a white towel.
His stocky body has sunk into itself, as if at the end of a very long breath.
His face bears that combination of deep sorrow and inconsolable anger
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