Sofia’s arms are burning as she holds the last wooden prefab wall in place, her shirt sticking to her from the sweat pouring down her back. She grunts and adjusts her grip, trying to keep the wall steady while Przemek hurries to screw it into the frame, his face shiny with sweat. The wall’s middle section is open where the door will go, making it a bit awkward to handle. Inside, William’s hammering away at the floorboards, the rhythmic thud mingling with the sounds of their efforts. The summer sun is relentless, but with every screw and hammer strike, the small 30-square-meter house is coming together, piece by piece.
As Przemek tightens the last screws and the wall finally settles into place, Sofia takes a quick break, wiping the sweat off her brow. The ceiling, once they get to it, will be made of thick wooden beams with sturdy planks laid crosswise. These beams are chosen for their insulating properties, designed to trap heat inside and keep the cold at bay during the harsh Swedish winters. The plan is for the ceiling to be well-insulated, with a layer of fiberglass or foam sandwiched between the beams, ensuring the house stays warm even when the outside temperature plummets. It’s a trade-off for the summer heat, but the aim is to create a cozy, snug space that will feel like a warm refuge against the snowy cold.
Przemek hands Sofia the water jug with a tired but friendly smile. She takes it, chugging down some cool water and letting out a sigh of relief. They both glance over at William, who’s on his hands and knees, wrestling with the wooden floor planks that just won’t seem to fit. William’s getting visibly frustrated, tapping and adjusting with increasing impatience.
Przemek, with his years of construction experience clearly showing, walks over with a relaxed, purposeful gait. He picks up a tile effortlessly and, with a single smooth motion, sets it right where it needs to go. The tile clicks into place perfectly, and he steps back with a grin, clearly pleased with the quick and easy fix. William looks on, a mix of relief and admiration on his face.
William, once one of the men captured during the fight against Lysekil, was relieved to have switched sides and become part of the Oksjo community. He tried his best to fit in, but his lack of practical skills made it a challenge. The kitchen had been a particularly awkward fit for him after a minor disaster involving the stove, leading to a gentle suggestion that he steer clear of cooking duties. Even though he had been conscripted back in Lysekil, his lack of aptitude with weapons and discipline had left him sidelined. In Oksjo, where almost every adult carried some form of weapon, he was notably unarmed. The official reason given was skepticism about his loyalty, but the truth was more pragmatic: his clumsy handling of firearms had made everyone wary, and no one wanted to risk being on the receiving end of an accident.
“What did you do before all of this?” Sofia asked, passing Przemek the water jug.
“Nothing much,” William said, struggling to fit the last floorboard into place. He noticed the couple’s skeptical looks and quickly added, “I worked in a supermarket.”
“And in Lysekil?” Przemek asked, curiosity evident in his voice.
“I was in the warehouse,” William replied. He sighed and added with a hint of childish defensiveness, “They didn’t really like me there.” His tone was reminiscent of a kid trying to explain to a teacher why he was being picked on by classmates.
“I’m not really good at anything,” William said softly, looking down at his work with a hint of self-doubt.
“Well, you just laid the floor for my future house,” Sofia replied, offering a reassuring smile.
“Yeah, you did a solid job,” Przemek agreed, giving a nod. “Even with that last part where I pitched in.”
William sighed, his shoulders slumping a bit. “What’s that worth compared to shooting straight?” he asked, a touch of frustration in his voice.
“What the hell are you on about?” Przemek snapped, frustration evident in his voice.
Sofia stepped in quickly, hoping to defuse the situation. “From each according to his ability, to each according to his needs,” she said calmly.
Przemek turned to William, his tone softening but still edged with frustration. “Don’t think less of yourself just because you’re not a soldier or something. There are more than enough people with guns. Take pride in what you’re good at. There’s a reason I asked you to help us. I saw the good work you did yesterday, and I’ve heard good things about you from Niklas—apparently, you’ve got skills with horses and cows.”
Sofia stifled a chuckle at Przemek’s awkward attempt to compliment William, appreciating his effort to encourage him despite his clumsy wording.
“You’re doing fine, even if you did nearly burn down the kitchen,” Sofia said calmly, her smile warm. “Just focus on the work ahead. We’re done here for today, so go wash up!”
William smiled back, his grin nearly reaching his big glasses that made his eyes look even larger. His skin and hair were slick with oil, but his expression was one of genuine appreciation as he nodded and headed off to clean up.
Przemek glanced around the cabin, taking in its spaciousness with a thoughtful frown. It looked promising, but he couldn’t help wondering how it would feel once furnished. Meanwhile, Sofia examined the walls, envisioning how cozy and warm it would become once completed. Given the materials they had, ensuring the cabin was well-insulated for the winter was a top priority.
She noticed Przemek taking long, deliberate steps across the floor, as if measuring the space in his mind. With a laugh, she asked, “Not big enough?”
“Not our mansion bedroom,” Sofia replied with a chuckle as Przemek shrugged.
“Yeah, well, there’s room for expansion there,” Przemek said, glancing around the cabin with a hint of practicality in his tone as he inspected the back wall as if sensing where they could add another room.
Sofia smiled, sensing that Przemek was thinking along the same lines she was. They had discussed the topic of kids a few times, more out of practical necessity than anything else. With contraceptive options limited, they had to be practical and make what they called “contingency plans.”
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Despite the serious undertones, they both cherished the idea of growing old together. In their mid-thirties, contemplating their future was something they’d done even before everything changed. The thought of building a life—and possibly a family—amidst this mess was both comforting and scary.
Both Sofia and Przemek hoped that having a family would become a reality someday. They wanted to wait for more stability before making any decisions, despite the comfort and security they’d found in Oksjo—something they couldn’t have imagined a year ago. The promise of a stable future, along with the warmth and safety of their new home, made the idea of starting a family feel like a hopeful possibility on the horizon.
Sofia contemplated all of this as she gave Przemek a long, intense stare. The seriousness in her eyes was matched only by the depth of her love for him. Przemek met her gaze, immediately understanding the thoughts behind it. He set the measuring tape down on the windowsill and wrapped her in a warm embrace. She responded by sliding her arms around him, resting her face on his neck.
She gently pushed him back, holding his face in her hands and locking eyes with him once more, her expression serious but full of affection. Then, they both leaned in, pressing their lips together in a tender kiss.
Jonathan gripped Christian firmly under the arms, hauling the kicking and screaming six-year-old away. For his age, the kid sure knew how to throw a punch.
“You sit here and think about what you did,” Jonathan said firmly, placing Christian on a small, mushroom-shaped chair. The boy glared up at him, defiant, but Jonathan held his ground.
The nursery was far from calm, even on a good day. He lowered the volume of the music on the cd player, he couldn't make out what the German singer was yelling but he knew the kids liked it. Letting out a quiet sigh, Jonathan made his way back over to Emilie, who was quietly drying her tears while fiddling with a handful of Legos. She was absorbed in her project, her little brow furrowed as she tried to piece together something only she could envision.
Jonathan sat down on the floor beside her, keeping his movements slow and deliberate. He didn’t speak right away, just watched as Emilie carefully analyzed the blocks in her hands, trying to figure out what she was building.
“Does it hurt?” Jonathan asked, nodding toward Emilie’s hand, where Christian had hit her with a toy in his desperate attempt to claim the Legos.
“Mhmm hm,” Emilie murmured, shaking her head.
Jonathan grabbed a tissue and gently wiped her tear-streaked cheek. “What are you building?” he asked, his voice calm and steady.
“Garden,” she replied softly. It was only then that Jonathan noticed the scattered Lego pots and flowers on the floor and realized what her mismatched creation was meant to be.
“A beautiful one at that!” he said with quiet enthusiasm, hoping to coax a smile out of her. She did smile—a small, fleeting one—before reaching out and wrapping her tiny hands around his.
She studied his hand closely, her curious eyes taking in the stitches and faded scars. “What happened?” she asked bluntly.
Jonathan hesitated for only a moment. “A bad dog bit me,” he said, the lie slipping out easily. There was no need to burden a five-year-old with the truth.
Emilie’s gaze lingered on his hand, her expression thoughtful. Then, without another word, she returned to her Lego garden, her small hands carefully rearranging the pieces.
Jonathan sat by the window, the late afternoon light casting a warm glow over the room as he carefully turned the pages of the book in his lap. His right hand, still marked by the injury from nearly two weeks ago, moved with a deliberate slowness. The skin on three of his fingers and part of his palm was a patchwork of healing wounds. Dark scabs clung to the surface, some cracked from the strain of movement, revealing tender new skin beneath.
The areas where he had lost bits of skin were now covered with shiny, taut patches, the fresh tissue still pink and fragile. As he turned another page, his fingers trembled slightly, the once effortless motion now requiring concentration. The sensation of the paper brushing against the dry, peeling edges of his healing skin was a constant reminder of how much had changed in just two weeks.
His digital watch started beeping. “Helvede” Jonathan silently let out as he was reminded where he was supposed to be.
Rifle in hand, he took out a magazine from his chest rig and inserted it in his C7 not bothering to chamber a round. The smaller chest rig, al do it offered no protection was easier to move around with and didn’t even weight half the weight of his plate carrier. It had three magazine pouches and an extra pouch he fashioned for a radio. It offered him mobility for the tedious task ahead. As he approached the stables, Niklas was already waiting for him at its gate. He looked at his watch in a dramatic way, signaling Jonathan that his lateness had not gone unnoticed. Without saying a word, he opened the gate and a dozen goats pushed and shoved their way out.
They swiftly made their way towards the main gate, with Niklas and Jonathan trailing behind.
The village outside Oksjo was a jungle of its own making. The pavement was split by bushes that had taken over, and vines crawled up the walls of the houses, swallowing fences whole. Jonathan barely paid attention to the overgrown beauty of the place. His visit was just a formality, a check on things that didn’t really concern him.
Niklas, however, was in his element. With the old AK5 rifle strapped to his back, he moved confidently through the streets, guiding the goats with practiced ease. As they left the village behind, the goats quickly made a beeline for the open field, eager to graze on the lush grass. Jonathan watched them for a moment, appreciating the simplicity of their joy before turning his attention back to his own thoughts.
The committee had promised him he would be in the first trip for Norrkoping, which would leave in a few days. He would accompany Sven and a few other people there. To discuss what to do with Lysekil and other important matters.
Niklas approached Jonathan with a casual stride, his boots crunching on the uneven, weed-choked path. The goats were already spread out across the open field, contentedly munching on the thick, green grass. Jonathan stood a few steps away, lost in his thoughts, when Niklas drew near.
Without a word, Niklas unstrapped the battered flask from his belt and extended it toward Jonathan. The silver surface was worn and scratched. Jonathan hesitated, then took the flask, unscrewing the cap with a soft metallic click.
As soon as the sharp, pungent aroma hit his nose, Jonathan knew this was no ordinary drink. He took a cautious sip, and the liquid burned its way down his throat, a fiery trail that made his eyes water. The alcohol was potent, much stronger than he expected, and it left a lingering heat that settled deep in his chest. He coughed slightly, handing the flask back to Niklas, who grinned at Jonathan’s reaction.
"Too strong?" Niklas asked, amusement twinkling in his eyes as he took a swig himself, seemingly unaffected by the harshness of the drink.
Jonathan nodded, clearing his throat. "Yeah, that’s… something else," he admitted, forcing a smile as he felt the warmth spread through him.
“You’re too young for this,” Niklas remarked as Jonathan leaned his rifle against the fence.
“What’s it called?” Jonathan asked, watching as Niklas effortlessly took hold of the rifle, inspecting it with practiced ease.
“Kryddat Brännvin—burnt wine,” Niklas explained, glancing at Jonathan.
“Don’t you have it in Denmark?” Niklas added.
“We just call it Snaps,” Jonathan suggested, his eyes following Niklas as he smoothly shouldered the rifle.
“What did you do before?” Jonathan asked, curiosity getting the better of him.
“Worked in a warehouse as a foreman. Served as an amfibiesoldat during my military service. But don’t ask too many questions—I can’t remember half of it,” Niklas replied, placing the rifle down.
“Good job maintaining it,” he added, taking a swig from his flask before heading over to one of his goats, which had gotten tangled in a wire fence.