That day, the first snow fell. At eleven in the morning, large flakes began to descend from a colorless sky, flooding the fields, gardens, and lawns of Romerike like invaders from space. By two in the afternoon, the snowplows were out on the streets of Lillestrøm, and by half past two, when Sara Kvinesland slowly and carefully edged out with her Toyota Corolla among the detached houses on Kolo Avenue, the November snow had covered the rolling countryside like a feather duvet.
The houses looked very different to her in the daylight. So different, in fact, that she almost missed the turn onto the lane to the house. The car skidded when she braked suddenly, and a groan came from the back seat. In the rearview mirror, she saw her son’s angry face.
“We won’t be long, my love,” she told him. A large patch of black asphalt in front of the garage, in that all-white landscape, showed that the moving truck had already come and gone. A lump rose in her throat. She only hoped it wasn’t too late.
“Who lives here?” her son asked from the back seat. “An acquaintance of mine,” Sara said, automatically smoothing her hair in the mirror. “Ten minutes, my love. I’m leaving the key in the ignition so you can listen to the radio.” She got out without waiting for an answer and, her shoes slipping terribly, she staggered to the door she had passed through so many times, but never like this, in broad daylight, exposed to the prying eyes of the neighbors.
