soldag
This morning, at about twenty past eleven, I heard the ninth step.
Then two knocks, slow, and a voice: "Alison? It's Kjell."
He'd climbed all fourteen steps, with the knee, holding a paper bag. Two solboller, sun buns, round, with yellow custard in the middle. "God soldag," he said.
I said it was tomorrow. Monday.
He laughed and got his phone out and held it up. Monday. 21 January.
Somewhere between Wednesday night and what I've been calling Thursday there's a day I wasn't in. I lay down at half four and got up thirty-something hours later, in the same blue, with the phone in a drawer, and called it nine hours. Then I counted from there.
Kjell said, "Go to Telegrafbukta. Now. Run."
I ran. Down the hill and along the road by the water, out to the shore on the south end of the island, still in my indoor jumper under my coat. There were hundreds of people on the rocks. Thermoses, dogs, a barnehage of tiny children in yellow vests holding a rope, singing.
At 11:55 the sun came up over the mountains to the south. A sliver first, then a bit more, orange, so bright I had to look at the snow instead. Everyone cheered. The children sang louder. I ate a solbolle and got custard down my coat.
It stayed for a few minutes. Then it slid along the ridge and went behind it.