He was just as interested in making winter friends as I was.

‘What’s your name?’ I repeated sharply, catching a glimpse of the name on the card before he pushed it back in his wallet.

He glared silently and absently from beneath the peak of his cap. There was a stale smell all around the boy, as if someone had washed his clothes and not bothered to air them properly before putting them away.

‘Adrian,’ I said wearily. ‘Right, now I’m going to tell you something.’

The boy gave a start, ran his hand over his cap and stared at me for three long seconds.

Adrian was fifteen years old. I knew nothing about him, and yet I knew everything. He was hardly in any condition to fight, he probably didn’t weigh any more than fifty kilos under those oversized clothes. He was foul-mouthed. A thief, without a shadow of doubt, and I was convinced that he was already well on the way into a destructive cycle of substance abuse. A petty criminal, a little shit who hadn’t yet learned to hide his expression.

‘Are you psychic, or something? How do you know -’

‘Yes, I am psychic. Now just shut up. Are you hurt?’

He moved his head a fraction. I interpreted this as a no.

‘Your chair!’

Geir Rugholmen brought with him a cold draught from outside. Only now did I realize that the large lobby was gradually emptying.

‘We need to find a room for you as well,’ he said, putting together my wheelchair with surprising expertise. ‘Most people have already got a bed here at the hotel. We’ve used the private apartments as well.’

He waved vaguely in the direction of the stairs before attaching the last wheel.

‘Fortunately the hotel was more or less empty. It’s not exactly high season. It will soon be the winter break; things would have been much more difficult then. We’ve moved most of the youngest and fittest adults over to the buildings around the station. So now we need to find a room for…’