Ove told her he was a bit more about thinking for himself rather than reading what a lot of other clots had on their minds.
Sonja just smiled and caressed his cheek. Then he carried her absurdly oversize bags to the bus.
Felt the driver smelling of wine as he went by, but concluded that maybe this was the way they did things in Spain and left it at that.
Sat there in the seat as Sonja moved his hand to her belly and that was when he felt his child kicking, for the first and last time.
He stood up and went to the bathroom and when he was halfway down the aisle the bus lurched,
scraped against the central barrier, and then there was a moment of silence.
As if time was taking a deep breath. Then: an explosion of splintering glass.
The merciless screeching of twisting metal. Violent crunches as the cars behind the bus slammed into it. And all the screams. He’d never forget them.
Ove was thrown about and only remembered falling on his stomach.
He looked around for her, terrified, among the tumult of human bodies, but she was gone.
He threw himself forward, cutting himself under a rain of glass from the ceiling,
but it was as if a furious wild animal were holding him back and forcing him down on the floor in unreflecting humiliation.
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