“Oh, I don’t have the strength for this...” sighs Parvaneh and holds her forehead.
She looks at her daughters. “Will you sit here nicely with Uncle Ove while Mum goes to see how Dad is? Please?”
“Yeah, yeah,” agrees the seven-year-old grumpily. “Yeeeees!” the three-year-old shrieks with excitement.
“What?” whispers Ove. Parvaneh stands up. “What do you mean, ‘with Ove’? Where do you think you’re going?”
To his great consternation, the Pregnant One seems not to register the level of upset in his voice.
“You have to sit here and keep an eye on them,” she states curtly and disappears down the corridor before Ove can raise further objections.
Ove stands there staring after her. As if he is expecting her to come rushing back and cry out that she was only joking.
But she doesn’t. So Ove turns to the girls. And in the next second he looks as if he’s just about to shine a desk lamp into their eyes
and interrogate them on their whereabouts at the time of the murder.
“BOOK!” screams the three-year-old at once and rushes off towards the corner of the waiting room,
where there’s a veritable chaos of toys, games, and picture books.
Ove nods and, having confirmed to himself that this three-year-old seems to be reasonably self-motivating,
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