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“You use a butter knife,” Tova says.

“I do.”

“Every time.”

“Every time.”

“Now you don’t have to.”

Ruth does not say anything for a moment, and I do exactly what she said I would do.

“Where did you find it?”

“A man by the market. Mormor haggled with him.”

“Did she win?”

“She always wins.”

Ruth closes her hand around the handle. “Thank you, Tova.”

“You’re welcome.”

She puts it into her bag. Then she takes it out again and puts it into her coat pocket instead, and lets herself out, and the door closes behind her the way it does when somebody has been closing it for eighteen years.

Tova keeps the third bag against her chest and waits for him to ask.

He does not.

She does not last long. She digs to the bottom of it.

“This is yours.”

A packet comes across the island and he catches it without looking. Swedish licorice. He reads the label.

“This is the worst candy in Europe.”

“I know.”

He eats one in front of her and keeps his face perfectly still.

She takes Colt’s cereal out of the cabinet.

“This is still disgusting.”

“You ate two bowls before you left.”

“I was younger then.”

“Three weeks.”

“A lot happens.”

She gets a bowl from the correct cabinet without looking and sits in her chair. Colt gets the milk.

“Mormor says we should come for Midsummer.”

“For how long?” I ask.