At Slussen the carriage filled and emptied like a lung. Someone's umbrella dripped onto her shoe. She did not move her foot, because moving it would have meant leaving the story for a moment, and she was not ready to leave.

Across the aisle a girl was reading too, a paperback folded back on itself so hard the spine had turned white. They did not look at each other. It felt, all the same, like company.