“Was there really a killer?” he asked me. “A night stalker. Was it the drug addicted alcoholic nurse, the strange Cold Room doctor, Rosa the nurse’s aide or Bruce the big black orderly, or had it all started when that weird Oddur Gunnerson came to The Lodge. Was it Karl? Or was it all just my paranoid delusion? I was so afraid I wouldn’t make it here.”
“I know,” I said. “It really doesn’t matter, does it. Looking back at that life. There is little point in that, when all that matters is to look ahead again.”
“There is something waiting there. I feel it.”
I reached out to him, to take his hand and go forward. We were not there, yet we were everywhere, joined together as if we were one, inside each other.
“We will go there together,” he said. “There will be much more.”
“I know,” I said.
“Did I just die from a spent life?” he asked.
“Some of us are so afraid of death that we fail to live the fullest life,” I said.
“Was it the troll that ate my soul?” he asked.
“Perhaps it ate yours and others,” I said.
“Surely it wasn’t Greta Lundberg, with her bag of miscellaneous pills?”
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