Prologue
The beginning of the end (May 27)
My legs feel oddly numb as I follow the stream of students into the hallway. There are people everywhere, and more and more phones ringing. Everyone’s raising their voices, trying to be heard. Some people are already crying. But I can’t feel a thing. It’s as if I’m watching everything from afar. It doesn’t bother me. I can even calmly come to the conclusion that this must be a defense mechanism, and I should be grateful for it.
Tilda picks up after the first ring.
“Are you at school?” I ask.
“No,” she says. “I was on my way from the pool when I heard. I’m almost back home.”
“I’m on my way.”
“Hurry.”
I promise her I will. Just before I end the call, I hear her let out a soft sob.
Farther down, in one of the other hallways, someone screams. I try to go online; it’s too busy. Hampus says something to me, but I can’t hear him.
As I pass a window, I feel the warmth of the day through my thin shirt. Out there, the sun is shining; the trees are almost unnaturally green. It’s still early in the morning.
My first class had just started when the principal popped his head into the classroom, waving at our math teacher, Mr. Andersson. They’d whispered in the hallway. I could see them when I leaned forward. The door to the classroom next to ours burst open. I heard footsteps and muffled voices. I stared down at the test Mr. Andersson had just handed over, the final one for the term. Phones started going off. My thoughts raced—Terrorist attack? War?—but I never could have guessed what Mr. Andersson would come back into the classroom to tell us. His hands shook as he polished his glasses, stalling for time.
I reach the lobby. Scan the crowd for Johannes. I can’t see him anywhere. Around me, people are crying, loudly and openly. Seeing them just makes it all feel even more surreal. But there are others who seem to react more like me. Who’ve shut down. When I meet their eyes, it’s like we’re glimpsing each other in a dream.
Someone runs straight into me, a girl in a graduation cap. She drops everything in her arms. A closed laptop lands on the floor with a loud crack, and I hear something smash. Papers fan out across the floor. Pens roll across the tile.
“Shit, sorry,” I say, bending down to help her.
But she’s already gone. Only a trace of her sweet perfume lingers in the air.
I straighten up. Glance at the laptop. Feel a surge of panic. The voices around me fill the air, pressing against my eardrums, draining the air of oxygen. The lobby has never felt so small.
I make my way outside. It’s full of voices, too, but at least it’s easier to breathe out here. There isn’t a cloud in the sky, only the azure emptiness above me.
It’s out there.
The thought sneaks up on me, and I already know that the sky will never look the same to me again.
My phone vibrates in my hand. My mom Judette’s face fills the screen.
Her new apartment is only a few blocks away from school. I start running, weaving between groups of students, the soles of my shoes slapping against the asphalt. Birds are chirping noisily. The air is full of right-before-summer-break smells: lilacs, damp grass, dust in the morning shade. A car’s stopped, its rear wheel backed onto the curb, the radio blaring. I recognize the prime minister’s voice but can’t make out the words.
I run on. A dad is on his way to the playground with his daughter. He listens intently as she rambles about a robot that can transform into a cat. I look at the dad. Wonder if he knows what’s happening. I hope not. I hope he’ll stay blissfully ignorant for at least a few more minutes. They disappear out of sight as I turn the corner and see the antique pink three-story brick building and cross the parking lot, where the worn Toyota Judette bought last week is sitting.
The smell of the stairway is still unfamiliar to me. I climb the stairs two at a time until I reach the top floor, unlock the front door, and step into the hallway, which is still full of cardboard boxes. The television is on in the living room.
“Simon!” Judette shouts, getting up from the sofa. She’s still in her bathrobe.
I turn to the TV, where a government press conference is taking place. Cameras are snapping. It looks as if the prime minister’s been up all night.
“You’ve heard the news?” Judette asks, uncertain.
“Yeah.”
She hugs me. That protective dream feeling threatens to dissolve. I want to stay in her arms. I want to feel small. I want her to promise me that everything is going to be all right, and I want to not give a shit that it would be the biggest lie ever told.
There’s only one thing I want more than that.
“Stina’s on her way,” Judette says.
I pull away. “I have to go to Tilda’s. Where are your car keys?”
“You can’t drive by yourself,” she says automatically.
“I’m pretty sure the police won’t be checking people’s licenses today.”
As soon as the words pass my lips, the reality of what’s happening hits. An abyss opens up, threatening to swallow me whole.
Judette lays a cool hand against my cheek. “Sweetie, I understand. But we need to be together, to talk about this.”
“I’ll be right back. I promise.”
She opens her mouth to object, but I race back to the hall and find the car keys in the pocket of her jacket. Judette calls out behind me. My name’s cut off as the front door slams shut. The keys jangle in my hand as I run down the stairs and back across the parking lot. Judette’s still shouting from the balcony as I jump into the Toyota’s driver’s seat, buckle the seat belt, and start the engine. Pull out onto the road.
My heart is pounding so hard. I have pins and needles in my fingers, in my face. This is my first time driving alone. I shouldn’t be driving at all right now.
My phone vibrates. Judette, of course. I put it on the passenger seat, where it continues to buzz like a small, furious animal. I drive along the railroad tracks, pass the train station. A crowd’s gathered on the street outside. They’re watching the skies. A couple of girls in their twenties are laughing hysterically.
I see something move out of the corner of my eye, and the tires squeal as I slam on the brakes. An old man glares at me from the crosswalk.
My phone vibrates again. My mom Stina is on the screen this time. I shift gears, carefully easing on the clutch and pressing down on the accelerator. The car jerks forward. I wish I could have taken Stina’s automatic instead.
I force myself to focus. When I stop at a red light at the edge of the center of town, I see a woman leaning over her steering wheel on the other side of the intersection. It looks like she’s crying. In the car next to hers, a man in a suit is staring blankly ahead. He doesn’t seem to notice the light turning green. The cars behind him honk furiously. I keep driving, past the exit to the old industrial park, North Gate, continuing along the highway until I turn in to the row of houses where Tilda lives with her parents.
The flowers are blooming, and there are trampolines and colorful swing sets everywhere. Chalk hopscotch grids line the sidewalks.
The children who live here will never grow up.
The thought makes the muscles in my chest contract.
Emma is never going to . . .