By the time the ferry made its way underneath the bridge, the sun had already set. The lights of the city beckoned to them. Christmas was long past, and snowless patches dotted the landscape. The cold wave had frozen the ugliness in place like a photograph.

“I always think that late January is the nastiest time of year,” Ringmar said, “but when it rolls around it’s no worse than anything else.”

“I know what you mean.”

“That must mean that I feel just as shitty all year round or else that I’m always happy as a king.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I wish I was a king.”

“Things aren’t that bad, are they?”

“A long time ago, I thought that I was a crown prince. I was wrong. It turned out to be you. How old are you? Chief inspector at thirty-seven, or thirty-five when you were promoted? It’s unheard of.”

The sounds of the city had grown louder.

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy for you,” Ringmar continued. “But if I still had any hope left for myself, the workshop I was just at crushed it.”

“What workshop?”

“You know, the one about taking the next step in your life and that sort of thing.”

“Oh yeah, I’d forgotten all about it.”

“You were lucky to get out of it.”

“Right.” Winter watched the traffic out on the highway. The line of cars reminded him of an agitated glowworm.

“I’m not a career climber, when all is said and done.”

“Why do you keep talking about it, then?”

“Let’s say I’m processing my disappointment. That’s a natural thing to do every once in a while, even if you can’t complain about the scraps that life has thrown your way.”

“You’re a detective inspector, for God’s sake. A respected public official.” Winter inhaled the night air. “Not exactly a king, maybe, but certainly a role model.”