As they talk, he surprises the hell out of me by reaching across the bed and taking my hand. What the hell is he doing? Oh god, he’s holding my hand. Henrik Karlsson is holding my hand. I can’t breathe, can’t think. Never taking his eyes from his niece, he gives my hand a grateful squeeze, and I relax, all tension leaving my shoulders. In this moment, I think I’d be content to sit here and let Karlsson hold my hand for the rest of my life. He talks to his niece in Swedish for a while, and I just watch, listening to the rhythm of the words I can’t understand. But the feelings are there: love,
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