[ Within the space of those first smooth syllables, Lisbeth understands exactly what she's witnessing. Not what a closer look at the soldiers' uniforms would tell her, or what the boy beside her is trying to do with his arms outstretched, or how it is either of them are here in this— whatever this is. That isn't important. She understands the gentle lilt of kindness that's more like a knife sliding between the ribs. She understands threat, sung from the strong to the weak.
And that she only has seconds. There isn't much on his desk — an inkwell, a bell, a book, a few sprigs of greenery in a glass.
(Mama, the boy says, and Lisbeth goes a little blind too, but not with panic.)
The glass shatters in a wet spray, and she's moving, hurtling all hundred pounds of her over the desk with what's left of the glass gripped by the rim, yelling and slicing. Her shoulder meets up with the nose of the pistol — and it's only five inches of bone and cartilage, it's only one of at least three firearms and countless weapons in this room, but maybe it's enough (or maybe it isn't). ]
Run! [ she shouts at the boy— in Swedish, but, well, maybe he gets the idea. ]
falling down stairs: murder edition???
And that she only has seconds. There isn't much on his desk — an inkwell, a bell, a book, a few sprigs of greenery in a glass.
(Mama, the boy says, and Lisbeth goes a little blind too, but not with panic.)
The glass shatters in a wet spray, and she's moving, hurtling all hundred pounds of her over the desk with what's left of the glass gripped by the rim, yelling and slicing. Her shoulder meets up with the nose of the pistol — and it's only five inches of bone and cartilage, it's only one of at least three firearms and countless weapons in this room, but maybe it's enough (or maybe it isn't). ]
Run! [ she shouts at the boy— in Swedish, but, well, maybe he gets the idea. ]