“Teddy! Come!” I jolt, eyes wide, as I take in Karlsson’s shirtless form standing in the kitchen. He’s got his phone up to his ear, spatula in his other hand. His expression is tense as he barks something in Swedish. Then he waves at me with the spatula. “What—” “Come,” he says again. “Mind the bacon. I have to take this call.” He sets the spatula down and hurries over towards what I now see is not a windowpane but a door set in the wall of glass. It leads out to a small terrace.
