“Maybe you’re no good at listening to them!” Ove counters.
“Maybe you’re no good at TELLING THEM!” Ove looks at the book, very unimpressed.
“What kind of sh—nonsense is this anyway? Some talking train? Is there nothing about cars?”
“Maybe there’s something about nutty old men instead,” mutters the seven-year-old.
“I’m not an ‘old man,’” Ove hisses. “Clauwn!” the three-year-old cries out jubilantly. “And I’m not a CLOWN either!” he roars.
The older one rolls her eyes at Ove, not unlike the way her mother often rolls her eyes at Ove. “She doesn’t mean you. She means the clown.”
Ove looks up and catches sight of a full-grown man who’s quite seriously got himself dressed up as a clown,
standing in the doorway of the waiting room. He’s got a big stupid grin on his face as well.
“CLAAUUWN,” the toddler howls, jumping up and down on the bench in a way that finally convinces Ove that the kid is on drugs.
He’s heard about that sort of thing. They have that attention-deficit hyperactivity disorder and get to take amphetamines on prescription.
“And who’s this little girl here, then? Does she want to see a magic trick, perhaps?” the clown exclaims helpfully
and squelches over to them like a drunken moose in a pair of large red shoes which,
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