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Monotone narration, “Tonight’s the night.” I ask her price, she says 50 bucks. Fifty! For a quickie? Inflation’s a bitch, man. Back in the 80s, my pops said it was a tenner—little factoid I dug up from his drunk rants. She’s got this scar on her cheek, tiny, shaped like a crescent moon. “Got it from a john,” she says, shruggin. I’m pissed—some asshole cut her? But also, damn, she’s tough. Kinda hot.

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After that, I decide to grab some lunch at a little café on Österlånggatan. The food’s bomb, but the waiter? Ugh. He’s got the personality of a wet sock. I order a smörgås, and he just nods. No smile, no “How’s your day?” Just…nothing. I’m like, “Dude, you’re in Ystad! Lighten up!”

Farewell Henning Mankell: A walk though Wallanderville after the coldest wind finally swept in