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Molly reached under the bed covers and emerged with a fisted object. She opened her palm flat, like a magician revealing a trick. “It’s a Dala horse, isn’t it? But I’ve never seen one like this. Not this fancy or pretty.”

Sentiment and relief flooding her, Ronja snatched it. With its bright red paint, it could pass for a simple child’s toy. Yet no child’s toy would ever bear such a harness of rare stones.

“It must be very special,” Molly whispered. “Glad I could help.”

“Thank you,” Ronja said in earnest, and then added in Swedish, “for being a gullible American.”

Molly laughed. “I didn’t catch that.”

“Time. What is the time?” Ronja’s eyes flew askance to the police officers between the curtain’s opening.

Molly displayed her casted arm with a chagrined smile. “No wristwatch. My husband has it, I’m assuming.” She puffed a humorless laugh. “That’s the last time I try horseback riding on vacation. There must be a clock out there.” Molly reached for the curtain with her good arm to pull it aside. Ronja blocked it. “Nej.”

Molly’s eyes paused on Ronja.

Heavy steps drew toward the curtain, yanking it aside.

A hardy nurse stared at them. Her white stockings matched the cap pinned in her dark hair. Her brusque words forced Ronja backward. “You’re awake, finally! Get in your own bed, so I can fetch the doctor.” She snapped her attention to Molly and said in Swedish, “Your husband is here. An orderly will take you to a different ward.”

Molly cringed at Ronja. “Can you translate that for me?”

The nurse continued guiding Ronja to her partition. Ronja resisted. So did Molly, who said, “Tell her to wait! Oh, darn.” She snapped her fingers, frustrated, and then cried in rough Swedish, “Förlåta!”

The nurse turned to Molly and said, “Ja?”

Molly frantically pointed under her bed and said in English, “It’s hers. The bag.” She spoke to Ronja, “Tell her your bag is under my bed.”

Ronja told the nurse in Swedish, “My things.” She gripped the horse tight and crouched low, finding a khaki, hand-stitched tote. An orderly came to Molly, unlocked the brakes of the gurney, and began wheeling her. “No wait, wait!” Ronja said, digging through the contents.

“Keep it!” Molly called out. “You might need it more than I do!”

Ronja started after her, shaking her head, but the room swerved. The nurse took Ronja’s elbow and swung her back. “Sit down, I need to check your color. You came in looking like a drowned rat in a fancy dress and pearls, but no family with you. Why is that?”

Ronja touched her neck. She indeed still wore the pearls Peter had given her. She ran her hands over them, unearthing the events from last night, and clamped the memories. I can’t.

The nurse fussed about her head wound. “Cat got your tongue? Ah, now, only six stitches. I can get a fresh bandage, but goodness, your hair is a mess. Such pretty hair.”

Ronja burrowed through the bag to check her belongings, but the nurse interfered, taking her chin. “Look at me.” She twisted Ronja’s face back and forth. “Does that hurt?”

Ronja grimaced. “Ja?”

“I’ll get the doctor.” She left.

Ronja stuffed the horse into the tote and slid off the bed. Checking her surroundings, she ran to the nearest exit, finding a clock at the nurse’s station on the way. I still have time.

The light outside was blinding and split her head, but the fresh air tempered her disorientation. Ronja hugged the outer walls of the building along the sidewalk. Springtime foliage of peaking sprigs and buds decorated the hospital’s perimeter. The sleepy gray sky, painted with reds and blues at the horizon, hinted dawn. Her attention narrowed to what she loved. Cars. Every colorful make and model lining curbs, zooming on the street. Freedom. A Porsche caught her eye and stabbed her with longing. Focus. Ronja ducked and hid between a parked VW bus and a blue Saab. She rifled through the tote, overcome with gratitude at Molly’s generosity. She discovered the woman’s clothes and shoved her arms and head through a navy wool sweater, then foisted on a pair of fitted plaid trousers, sucking in her stomach to button them. The navy flats were a little snug, but they would do. Ronja found a receptacle near a bus stop, balled the hospital gown, and tossed it.

She dove back into the tote, pausing to touch the Dalahäst, her tangible courage, and rummaged until finding her black satin clutch and a coin purse. Oh, no. This was Molly’s coin purse. Ronja opened it and found an abundance of Swedish and American currency, perhaps upwards of two hundred kronor and who-knows how many dollars. She contemplated returning to Molly, but she couldn’t risk it.

Ronja popped the clasp of her evening clutch. Her pulse skidded to a stop. It’s still here. All of it. But were the documents ruined? She handled the American passport, airline tickets, and another sheet of paper with a grid of dated stamps that read: VACCINE. Ronja examined the passport. The face in the photograph was hers. The name was not:

Sarah Ann Thomason

The documents were damp but not entirely damaged, as she’d feared. Ronja examined the airline ticket information in smeared ink. She separated the thin sheets of the red and blue booklet. SAS Scandinavian Airlines. Destination New York. The United States. The flight time was set for noon. The second booklet listed another destination and a different airline: Northwest Orient. New York to Minneapolis. This was for the following day, early morning.

Ronja glanced about. A red and white bus charged by, sending a motorized scooter careening onto the sidewalk, nearly colliding with a woman in an orange peacoat. She stuffed the contents into the tote and dashed to the bus.

Ronja transferred buses several times en route to Stockholm Arlanda Airport. After enduring several alarmed glances from strangers at her condition, she bought a scarf to cover her bloodied hair and a pair of dark sunglasses from a vendor.