Elin has a stack of invoices in her lap and doesn’t look happy. She came to work this morning with hair that was suddenly red instead of black, and her usual black clothes had been replaced with a retro 1950s-style dress and Doc Martens–style boots. “Well, but then who needs to approve these invoices?” she asks. “It doesn’t matter,” Sven says tiredly. “As long as it’s one of us. You can’t just pay them. You’re simply going to have to understand this.” Elin blushes and looks down at the table without answering. Aina shoots Sven a chilly look and puts a motherly hand over Elin’s. Aina soothes, “Come on, Elin. It was only a thousand kronor. Let’s forget about it now.” Sven starts in again, “Swedish Address Registry Inc.? How could you be so freaking stupid that you paid that? Anyone with half a brain can tell that’s a scam.” Sven runs his hand through his unwashed, graying hair and I smell the scent of sweat spreading through the room. Both Aina and I are nervous that Sven is in a tailspin, that he’s drinking too much.
