Frank Johansson is waiting for the shot that will change his life.
He’s sitting in an elm tree, six meters above the ground. He’s wrapped two layers of foam around the branch so he won’t get rubbed raw. Since the start of his surveillance two days ago he has downed fifteen liters of water. His back is incredibly sore.
It is summer. Full-blown Swedish summer. The sun is shining through the leaves and perspiration is pouring down his body. Nothing stirs except the wings of fate. This is his last chance. The photograph or the abyss. Or the
John Ajvide Lindqvist; Translated by Ebba Segerberg