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“Try the next stall,” Jesper calls from behind the wooden curtain. “Dorit sleeps there, she's very well behaved.” I stop in the alleyway and listen to Jesper's calm breathing. I turn my gaze to Dorit sleeping in her stall, her broad back becoming more and more visible in the darkness. “Talk to her,” Jesper says, but I don't know what to say, I can't say out loud what's on the tip of my tongue right now. The cubicle is cramped, there's no free space, and if Dorit turns slightly she'll pin me against the wooden curtain. I stroke the animal's neck, then lean down to its ear and begin to tell the tale of the brave lead soldier. When I reach the end of the tale, the part where the lead soldier slowly melts as he fights the flames, I lean forward and put my arms around the animal's neck, I tell it how the wind coming in through the window lifts the ballerina into the air and drags it towards the flames, how the ballerina, falling into the fire, shines like a shooting star and the flames go out, and when I finish my tale I am afraid to breathe. It's Christmas night 1934, Jesper and I are in a barn where everything breathes, in two separate stalls, snuggled up with two separate cows, maybe we fall asleep, because I don't remember much of the rest.