The old boys on his shift found him a little on the quiet side and a little odd on top of that.
He never wanted to join them for a beer after work and he seemed uninterested in women as well, which was more than weird in its own right.
But he was a chip off the old block and had never given them anything to complain about.
If anyone asked Ove for a hand, he got on with it; if anyone asked him to cover a shift for them, he did it without any fuss.
As time went by, more or less all of them owed him a favor or two. So they accepted him.
When the old truck, the one they used to drive up and down the railway track,
broke down one night more than ten miles outside of town, in one of the worst downpours of the whole year,
Ove managed to repair it with nothing but a screwdriver and half a roll of gauze tape.
After that, as far as the old boys on the tracks were concerned, Ove was okay.
In the evenings he’d boil his sausages and potatoes, staring out the kitchen window as he ate.
And the next morning he’d go to work again. He liked the routine, liked always knowing what to expect.
Since his father’s death he had begun more and more to differentiate between people who did what they should, and those who didn’t.
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