At 1 a.m. we see a blonde woman on the road. She’s hysterical, shouting at the cars. “Was her jacket blue?” I don’t know, I say, maybe it was white, or pale blue, perhaps. Oh. Silence in the car. We drive home, I grab the dog and we get into the house.
Fifteen minutes later my mother arrives with the blonde woman. Her clothes are wet and the left side of her face is bruised , purple and blue. They know each other from Swedish class, with one week left of the school year the blonde woman disappeared.
She’s sitting downstairs now, trying to reach her boyfriend – the very same person who painted her pretty face blue – he doesn’t answer the phone.