“Oh—shit—” I drop the tray on the stove with a clatter, returning to the burning bacon. I only just manage to save it. The ends are black and crispy but still edible. I’ll eat the burnt ends and give him the middles. Someone must have delivered groceries while we were at the hospital yesterday, because the fridge has fresh milk and juice, assorted berries, and what looks suspiciously like cold brew coffee. I’ve literally never seen Karlsson drink his coffee cold (and I’ve been watching). Granted, it’s been six years, but Henrik Karlsson is the kind of leopard who doesn’t change his spots. So .
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