Kim Lindgren

When I was eleven years old, my family lived in a small, blue, relatively remote house in northern Sweden. The rear of the house had a small deck facing a dense old-growth pine and spruce forest, while the front had a garage, a shed for firewood, and a fairly large lawn. My little brother, Oskar, had just been born about a month prior, and my parents were beginning to settle into their new routine. On the day in question, my father was away shopping for groceries, while my mother was inside…