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people were moving slowly and cautiously through the rooms, as though they were wondering what on earth they were doing there, which was almost exactly what Sara was thinking too. Still, they didn’t seem shocked. They didn’t seem surprised. No one was crying.
    Most of them were looking at Sara with curiosity, but something, perhaps respect for the significance of the event, was stopping them from approaching her. They circled around her instead, smiling whenever she accidentally caught their eye.
    Suddenly, a woman materialised out of the crowd and cornered Sara, halfway between the living room and the kitchen.
    â€˜Caroline Rohde.’
    Her posture and handshake were military but she was much more beautiful than Sara had imagined. She had deep, almond-shaped eyes, and features as pronounced as a statue’s. In the glow of the ceiling lamp, her skin was an almost shimmering white across her high cheekbones. Her hair was thick and streaked with grey strands. Around her neck, she wore a black scarf made from thin, cool silk which would have looked out of place on anyone else, even at a funeral, but on her it looked timeless – almost glamorous.
    Her age was hard to guess but she had the air of someone who had never really been young. Sara had a strong sense that Caroline Rohde didn’t have much time for youth.
    When Caroline started talking, everyone around her fell silent. Her voice matched her presence: determined, resolute, straight to the point. There was, perhaps, a hint of a welcoming smile in her voice, but it never made as far as her mouth.
    â€˜Amy said you’d be coming,’ she said. ‘I won’t claim I thought it was a good idea, but it wasn’t my place to say anything.’ Then she added, almost as an afterthought: ‘You’ve got to agree that this isn’t the most … practical situation.’
    â€˜Practical,’ Sara echoed. Though how Amy was meant to know she was going to die, she wasn’t sure.
    Others gathered around Caroline in a loose half-circle, facing Sara as though she were a travelling circus making a brief stop in town.
    â€˜We didn’t know how to contact you when Amy … passed away. And now you’re here,’ Caroline concluded. ‘Oh well, we’ll just have to see what we can do with you.’
    â€˜I’m going to need somewhere to stay,’ said Sara. Everyone leaned forward to hear.
    â€˜Stay?’ said Caroline. ‘You’ll stay here, of course! I mean, the house is empty, isn’t it?’
    â€˜But …’
    A man in a minister’s collar smiled warmly at Sara, adding: ‘Amy specifically told us to let you know that nothing would change in that regard.’
    Nothing would change? She didn’t know who was madder – the minister or Amy or the whole of Broken Wheel.
    â€˜There’s a guest room, of course,’ said Caroline. ‘Sleep there tonight, and then we’ll work out what we’re going to do with you.’
    The minister nodded and somehow it was decided: she would stay, alone, in dead Amy Harris’s empty house.
    She was bustled upstairs. Caroline went first, like a commander at war, followed closely by Sara and then George, a supportive, silent shadow. Behind them, most of the other guests followed. Someone was carrying her bags, she didn’t know who, but when she reached the little guest room her rucksack and suitcase miraculously appeared.
    â€˜We’ll make sure you’ve got everything you need,’ Caroline said from the doorway, not at all unkindly. Then she shooed the others away, giving Sara a brief wave before pulling the door closed behind her.
    Sara sank onto the bed, suddenly alone again, the paper plate still in her hand and a lonely book lying abandoned on the bedspread next to her.
    Oh hell, she thought.

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    Broken Wheel, Iowa
    June 3, 2009
    Sara Lindqvist
    Kornvägen 7, 1 tr
    136 38