When he steps out the door, Harald Lange sometimes doesn’t know whether he’ll find his way home again. 7.30 a.m., a block of flats with green front gardens, the gray prison wall on the right. Lange starts running: “Oh, watch out!” he says and jumps down the sidewalk. Along the prison wall, he looks up, twisted barbed wire. The sun shines towards him. When she stands like that, he doesn’t see the people who are coming towards him, a woman with a shopping trolley, a cyclist. He trusts his ears. On his senses.
Sometimes he wonders: could he just climb over the wall? From time to time he has such ideas. Anyway, Lange wants to try everything. Past a roundabout, across the street. The tram pulls in. “Oh, the zombies are coming,” says Lange. People walking, looking at the ground or their cell phones. feel nothing. He hears her footsteps, notices her movements.