What you're about to hear is based on actual events.

Listener discretion is advised.

Torreheadin rides his bicycle through the small Swedish town of Jornap, an axe swinging

like a pendulum from his belt.

Fitting, as time for the young auxiliary officer is up, he's surely about to lose his job.

A meeting he shirked is currently in session to decide his fate, which he knows to be

replacement by someone more qualified to police these silent streets than he.

He arrives at Allen's house and parks his bike alongside it, out of sight from the late

night strollers.

The home is a classic Swedish model.

Wood exterior painted crimson with bright white corners.

The interior is soon going to match, he thinks idly, and shuffs a short amused laugh.

The large man stands for a moment, axe at his side, breathing deep of the night air.

The horse is starving.

He mutters to himself, then wipes the blade of his trusty tool with a rough hand, and

turns to wrap his large fist on the side entrance.

The boy's mind is on horses.

Almost everybody else can think only of war.

The problem is not with them, so much as him.

It is 1944, and the man in charge of the country next door, air Hitler, has given every

soul and sweet and reason to sleep, uneasily, most nights.

The country sits in the heart of a whirlwind, with nearly all of Europe burning outside

...