He was eight years old and decided that night he would never drive any car but a Saab.
Whenever he had a Saturday off, Ove’s father brought him out into the yard,
opened the hood, and taught him all the names of the various parts and what they did.
On Sundays they went to church. Not because either of them had any excessive zeal for God, but because Ove’s mum had always been insistent about it.
They sat at the back, each of them staring at a patch on the floor until it was over.
And, in all honesty, they spent more time missing Ove’s mum than thinking about God.
It was her time, so to speak, even though she was no longer there. Afterwards they’d take a long drive in the countryside with the Saab.
It was Ove’s favorite part of the week. That year, to stop him rattling around the house on his own,
he also started going with his father to work at the railway yard after school.
It was filthy work and badly paid, but, as his father used to mutter, “It’s an honest job and that’s worth something.”
Ove liked all the men at the railway yard except Tom.
Tom was a tall, noisy man with fists as big as flatbed carts and eyes that always seemed to be looking for some defenseless animal to kick around.
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