Next to the unmade bed, a few feet from the door, was a garbage bag. There was something in it. It felt soft from the outside. He took hold of the bottom of the bag and carefully emptied it. A shirt and pair of pants fell out. Both of them looked like they had been dipped in something sticky that had now completely dried. I’m starting to see things, he thought. I’ve had enough for one day.

Back home, the burglar had difficulty concentrating. Snowflakes danced outside his window, and he could feel a draft through the sill. Some children were picking up the snow as soon as it hit the ground, while his son stood there with a carrot in his hand. A nose for a snowman, he thought. Why does that remind me of Michael Jackson?

“A penny for your thoughts,” his wife said.

“What?”

“You looked like you’d just discovered the theory of relativity.”

“I was thinking about Michael Jackson.”

“The singer?”

He kept his eyes on the children. The lower part of the snowman’s body was done. No legs, of course. A snowman with legs-that was a new concept.

“You meant the singer, right?” she repeated.

“What did you say?”

“Hello, anybody home?”

He turned and looked at her. “Yes, Michael Jackson. Kalle’s got a carrot in his hand, and he’s waiting for them to put a head on the snowman so he can give it a nose.” He glanced back at the children. “Michael Jackson had a nose operation or something a year or two ago.”

“That’s news to me.”

“It’s true. Is there any more coffee?”

She got up and took the coffeepot from the counter.

“So what did you do all day?” she asked after he had poured some milk in his cup, followed by the coffee, and taken a few sips.

“What do you mean?”

“You looked a little upset when you came home.”

“I did?”

“You weren’t your usual self.”

The snowman had a head now, and Kalle had stuck the carrot into a blank surface that would soon turn into a face with pebbles for eyes and gravel for a mouth.