It was undoubtedly the longest minute in Mikkel Wold’s life. And the shortest. The shortest and the longest minute. It was as if time had stopped. And yet it was slipping away between his fingers. Time had acquired a new meaning. Time had no meaning. They spent the first five seconds just staring at one another. Mikkel stared at Silje, whose jaw had dropped and whose eyes looked as if they’d just seen a UFO. Silje stared desperately at Grung, like a young member of the flock seeking comfort from one of the older ones, but there was no help to be found in Grung. The normally resourceful editor stared alternately at the cell phone lying on the table between them and Mikkel Wold, who was now staring at Erik Rønning.
Erik had ground to a halt. He was no longer functioning. There was not a single movement or expression to be found in his face. The rubber ball sat half squeezed in his hand. His mouth was half open. A witty or sarcastic comment had stopped on its journey out into the room and was now going back inside his head. All four of them. Dumbstruck. Frozen. In total shock. So went the first five seconds.
The next fifteen seconds were the total opposite. They all started talking over one another simultaneously. Like four children in a tunnel who had just realized that the freight train was coming toward them and that they could not get off the tracks, that there was just one way out and that was to run, even though deep down they all knew that it could only end in tragedy, but still they ran, out of instinct. Random words bounced around the room.
“Christ Almighty.”
“We have to pick one.”
“Jesus.”
“What if it’s a hoax?”
“I think I’m going to be sick.”
“But what the hell. We can’t just . . . ?”
“What if we don’t pick one?”
“Oh, my God.”
“We have to pick one.”
“We can’t.”
“This can’t be happening.”
“Grung?”
“Mikkel?”
“What are we going to do?”
“We can’t kill another human being.”
“I think I’m going to throw up. I feel sick.”
“We can save a human being.”
“Erik?”
“Silje?”
“What happens if we do nothing?”
“They both die.”
“We can’t kill a little girl.”
“Shit.”
“We can save a little girl.”
“Shit.”
“What are we going to do?”
“Shit.”
Twenty seconds had passed now. The clock in the office had no second hand. It still said 12:16. It was not helping. It did not count the seconds. That was the one thing they needed right now, not hours, not minutes, just seconds. The next ten were spent trying to work out how much time had passed. At this point panic was spreading around the room like wildfire.
“How much time has passed?” Silje’s face was deathly pale. “How much time is left?”
Grung had stood up and was resting the palms of his hands against the table. “Did someone make a note of the time?”
Mikkel Wold looked at his phone, at the clock on the wall. Without the second hand, the numbers might as well have been painted on the wall. Four children on the railway tracks in a tunnel who can feel the vibrations of the train thundering toward them.
“Let’s not waste time working out how much time has passed!” Erik said tightly.
He had gotten up, too, and banged his fist against the table. Once. Twice. Three times.
Grung had moved his hands from the table and started pulling at his hair. “How much time has passed?”
This part took ten seconds. By now thirty seconds had passed.
“We have to think now!” Erik shouted. “There’s no point shouting over each other.”
“We can’t just shout each other down!” Silje shouted.
“We must decide!” Mikkel Wold shouted.
“What are we going to do?” Grung shouted, still tearing his hair out.
“Everyone calm down!” Erik shouted.
“Let’s all calm down!” Silje shouted.
By now forty seconds had passed. Every single one of the last twenty seconds felt like an entire minute in itself. Or an hour. Or a whole year. It was as if the hands had stopped moving and yet were running away at the same time. Erik was the first person to make a sensible suggestion.
“Let’s vote.”
“What?”
“Don’t say anything. We’re voting now. Hands up, everyone who thinks we ought to do something.”
Erik held up his hand. Grung held up his hand. Mikkel Wold held up his hand without quite knowing why, his reaction pure reflex. Silje’s hands remained on the desk.
Forty-nine seconds had passed.
“Three against one.”
“But,” Silje protested, but Erik was not listening to her.
“Hands up, everyone who votes to save Karoline.”
“You mean kill Andrea?” Silje wailed.
“Hands up!” Erik shouted.
By now fifty-three seconds had passed.
“Hands up if you think we ought to save Karoline!” Erik shouted again, desperate now. The train was nipping at his heels—this was the only way out, make it stop or derail it.
He raised his hand and stared at Grung. Grung copied him and looked desperately at Silje.
“No!” Silje sobbed. “No, no, no!”
Fifty-seven seconds had passed.
Grung and Erik were standing with their hands in the air now. They both looked at Mikkel Wold.
“Yes or no?” Erik demanded.
Mikkel Wold tried to raise his arm from his lap, but it refused to move. It felt leaden. His arm had never been that heavy before. It refused to obey him. Or maybe that was exactly what it did. His brain didn’t know.
Fifty-nine seconds had passed.
“Come on!” Erik roared. “Do we save Karoline or not?”
“We kill Andrea!” Silje sobbed. “We can’t do that!”
“Yes or no?” Grung bellowed.
He had clumps of hair in his hand, which was raised in the air. Mikkel Wold tried to lift his hand again, but it was still stuck to his lap.
Then his phone rang.
The room fell completely silent. Their time was up. The phone rang again. Mikkel Wold was staring at it, yet he had no idea where it was. He could not see it clearly. It could have been in another room. Or on the moon. He did not know what to do. Finally Erik Rønning leaned over and pressed the screen.
“Hello again,” the metallic voice said.
There was total silence around the table.
“I’m very excited,” the voice said. “What did you decide?”
None of them were capable of uttering a single word.
“Is anyone there?” the voice asked.
Silje looked at Grung, who looked at Erik, who looked at Mikkel Wold, who looked at his fingers.
The metallic voice cackled. “Has the cat got your tongue? I need an answer now. Time is running out. Tick-tock.”
Erik Rønning cleared his throat. “We . . .”
“Andrea?” the chilling voice asked. “Or Karoline? Who gets to go home? One girl dies, one girl lives. How hard can it be?”
“They both live!” Silje sobbed.
The metallic voice laughed again. “Oh, no, Miss Olsen, that’s not how we play. One lives, one dies. You get to decide who lives and who dies. It feels good, doesn’t it? Being master of life and death. It’s a bit like being God. Isn’t it fun to play God, Rønning?”
The room fell completely silent again. The seconds crawled past at a snail’s pace. Mikkel Wold’s brain had stopped working. Silje was hugging herself. Grung was standing up with both hands in the air. Erik Rønning opened his mouth and was just about to say something.
“Right,” the cold voice said. “Both of them it is. It’s a shame, really, but if that’s what you want, who am I to argue? Thanks for playing.”
“No!” Silje cried out, lunging for the phone with both hands, a last desperate attempt to knock some humanity into the icy, metallic being, but it was too late.
The voice had already gone.