“God,” Henning whispered. “The oldies. We’re the oldies now, Jens.”
A grainy image resolved: a familiar face, wrinkled like a frost-bitten apple. “Henning? Is that you?”
Jens turned to page 14. There it was: a grainy black-and-white photo of a nine-year-old boy, skinny knees, huge grin, one hand on a wind-up gramophone. The caption: “Jens P., København – ‘Min bedste fødselsdagsgave’ (My best birthday gift).”
“My fault? You were the one who threw water and ruined the floor!”
“And set the curtain on fire,” Jens chuckled. “Your fault. You held the candle too close.”
Jens looked at his laptop, at the little green “online” dot. “Maybe not. But this isn’t so bad either. Lukas was right.”
“Jens, you old rascal! You look like a dried herring.”
“Remember your entry?” Jens asked. “That mangy rabbit?”