Page 40 of The Living and the Dead

“You better watch yourself.”

Sander tried to get away from that hand, but Karl-Henrik wasstrong, and he suddenly squeezed Sander’s shoulder hard, like he was trying to wring water from a sponge. Sander hissed and tried to free himself.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Killian said, about to intervene, but just then something happened.

The door to Filip’s room swung open and there stood Filip, looking like he always did, wearing baggy jeans and a gray hoodie. His gaze wandered, his eyes struggling to stitch the scene into a comprehensible whole: Floor. Dad. Backpack. Hand on shoulder. Wall. Door. Sander. Killian. Wall again. Distant point.

“You have company,” said Karl-Henrik.

He had let go of Sander. He turned around and staggered back to the staircase, where he grabbed the railing and went back downstairs without another word.

29

Filip stared vacantly at them. Behind him were plates full of uneaten frozen pizzas and a pile of empty soda cans. The floor was strewn with clothing, and the bed was unmade. A TV was on, showing the end of a movie.

“Did he say anything?” Filip asked in a flat tone.

Killian opened his mouth, but Sander cut in: “No. Nothing.”

“What are you doing here?”

Killian hesitantly held up Filip’s backpack.

“You forgot this,” he said.

“Oh, right.” Filip took it from him. “Where, uh…where did I leave it?”

“At school.”

“Okay.”

A change: previously, there had been a picture of Filip and Mikael on the wall, a family picture taken on vacation. In it, Mikael and Filip stood in bright sunlight, arms around one another. Sander and Killian had both seen it before. The nail was still there, but the frame was gone.

“Did you see the shotgun in the hall?” Filip asked.

“Yes.”

“Dad keeps taking the car out at night to search for whoever did it. I asked if I could come with, but he says no.”

His gaze had clouded over. It was hard to say whether he was speaking to them. He wasn’t looking at Sander or Killian. His fingernails were dirty. Filip had started shaving only a few months before, and his chin and cheeks were covered in downy stubble.

Sander gently laid a hand on Filip’s bony shoulder. “Hey, I just wanted to…Take it easy, okay?”

Filip looked like he had just been startled awake after dozing off. The movie on the TV ended. The tape began to rewind automatically.

“I don’t want anyone to find out,” he said. “But I have to tell someone.”

“You know,” Killian jumped in, “if you want—we finished the cabin, it’s got power and everything. If you need somewhere else to sleep. Or just somewhere to, like, be.”

“Yeah,” Sander agreed, adding emphatically, “or if anything else is going on.”

The videotape clicked. It was back at the beginning. Filip pressed Play on the same movie again.American Graffiti.

Killian shot an inquiring look at Sander, looking for a signal: what should happen next? Sander took his hand from Filip’s shoulder, unsure if he’d even noticed that someone had touched him.

—

On the way home, it stopped snowing. Sander and Killian walked side by side, sticking close, down the road. They spoke quietly about nothing in particular until the words seemed to run out, and then they continued in silence. They were almost home now. To Killian’s. They could see the cabin in the distance, pale and cold under a white Halland sky, the same piece of sky they’d lived their whole lives under. In Sander’s pocket was the page he’d torn from Filip’s notebook. He wondered if Filip would notice it was missing.