The screams were calling her. Like sonic spears, they pierced through every other nighttime noise in the center of Oslo: the steady hum of cars outside the window, the distant sirens that sometimes could be heard and sometimes faded away, the church bells that had just begun to ring nearby. She went out hunting at night, before sunrise. She dragged her nose across the dirty floor tarpaulin, recording and classifying the smells at lightning speed. Three categories: edible, threatening, and indifferent to her survival. The sour smell of gray ash; the sugary taste of blood on a piece of cotton; the bitter stench of beer from the overturned cap of a Ringnes; the molecules of sulfur, potassium nitrate, and carbon dioxide that had been released from the empty shell of a 9x18 mm bullet—known simply as Makarov, from the name of the gun in which this caliber was first used. The smoke from a cigarette butt that was still smoldering, with a gold filter and black paper, printed with the Russian national emblem, a double-headed eagle. The smoke was edible. And also: the smell of alcohol, leather, fat, asphalt. A shoe. She smelled it. And decided it wasn’t as easy to eat as the jacket in the closet.
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