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Then I see the yellow ribbon on a black handle. My mother tied it there in Stockholm because, according to her, every black suitcase in the world was designed by one man with no imagination.

Tova is behind it with her braid loose and a gray sweatshirt tied around her waist.

“Tova.”

“Mamma.”

She comes straight at me. The passport wallet presses into my shoulder when both arms go around my neck, and I hold the back of her head and breathe in airport air, shampoo, and the cinnamon gum my mother keeps in every bag she owns.

When she pulls away, the ends of her braid brush her shoulders differently.

“You cut your hair.”

“Mormor did.”

“Without asking me?”

“She asked me.”

“She is supposed to ask me.”

“It was two centimeters, Mamma.”

“That is how it begins.”

“It’s just the ends. Does it look bad?”

“Your grandmother has a flexible definition of ends.”

Tova grins past me, and then she goes to Colt without warning and puts her arms around his middle.

His mouth opens and closes. He gets both coffees into one hand and the other between her shoulder blades.

“Hey, kid.”

“Hi.”

“You get taller?”

“No.”

“Sweden shrink everybody else?”

“Yes.”

She lets go and takes his coffee.

“That mine?”

“It is now.” She drinks, and makes a face, and hands it back. “That’s terrible.”

“You stole it.”

“I needed evidence.”

“Three weeks away and you come back prosecuting me.”

“I learned things.”