Ulrik had been leaning against the truck for eleven minutes and had already taken the keys out of his pocket twice.

The scent had hit him on the north road at seven in the morning and he had laughed out loud, alone in the cab, because it was the funniest thing the world had done to him in years: after all those parties and all those meetings, the mate neither of them had found was walking into a grocery store in Fernwick with a cardboard box under one arm and a list already lost.

Jorund had asked, flat, from the door.

Ulrik had put the keys away.

So he had stayed out here in the wet and watched you come back out with a bag that was too light for the walk home, and when you saw him he did not step toward you.

he said, and pushed himself off the truck, and then stayed exactly where he was.

His temper had been sitting under his skin since morning and none of it was pointed at you.