Excerpt from The Night Guest by Hildur Knútsdóttir, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

And the banks seem to be in on it, too, because they provide the ID numbers. When you think about it, it's a little odd that banks generate our government IDs, but that's commonplace Icelandic corruption for you.

I call the health center and request the results by phone. The woman who answers at the front desk says it's not available. She says it in an offensively cheerful tone. I grumble at her, but she just gets cheerier.

During my lunch break, I go to the bank. All the muscles in my thighs ache when I walk up the stairs. I feel like I've been on a treadmill all night. (For the record, I have never used a treadmill.)

Two women are standing in the lobby of the bank and welcome me. I notice that there is only one cashier but at least four employees who seem to be working on linking kennitalas with electronic ID accounts.

It's easier to get one than I expected. The man who helps me makes me sign some papers that I'm too tired to bother reading. He's the officious sort who wants to cover his ass by making it "quite clear" that page three states that the service is free now but that he cannot rule out the possibility that it will have a fee later.

"Yes, I know everything about the Progressive Party," I say, though, of course that's not true.

He gives me a weird look. Maybe it was the Independence Party, after all. But I mean, really, what's the difference?

The first thing I do when I get back to work is to log into the health center. There's a message from Ásdís María Ómarsdóttir waiting for me. I feel warm inside just seeing her name. Then I take a deep breath and open the mail from her.

All the blood tests came out well. All results normal.

I stare at the message for a long time. When the letters start to blur, I realize that I'm—damn it—crying.

I sniff, wipe my cheeks, and glance around me. Fortunately, almost everyone is still at lunch, and no one seems to have noticed anything.

I get to my feet, go to the toilet, and clean myself up.

The lump in my throat swells. Staring at my reflection above the sink, I tell myself not to cry.

It's not that I was hoping I was sick.

Except maybe I was just hoping for something. Not ALS—never ALS—and not myasthenia gravis. But maybe something innocent. Iron deficiency, iodine deficiency, arthritis, some manageable metabolic disease, B12 deficiency—or perhaps a little hypoactive thyroid. Was that too much to ask?

Because there is nothing worse than having unexplained symptoms. Feeling like there's something terribly wrong—but nothing that can be measured in exams, and you know the doctor thinks it's all in your head.

I stare at my reflection, reminding myself, of course, that it could be much worse. The tests came out well. I should not be disappointed. I should feel relieved.

"You should be happy," I hiss at the mirror.

And to my surprise, the trace of a malicious grin twists the side of my mouth.

"I'm not hysterical," I tell my reflection.

She nods.

3

I increase my vitamin dose. Also, buy vitamin D. And calcium and something called spirulina that the girl in the pharmacy recommends. Then I google and read that spirulina can contain large amounts of heavy metals, so I throw it in the trash. My conscience twinges about throwing it in the trash (The heavy metals, where do they go? Landfills? Maybe into the groundwater?), but I don't do anything about it.

I go to the bar with my friends after work. They say I need to be more active.

"That's how you get energy! Not by lounging on the couch! I could explode after I ran ten kilometers! I felt like I could conquer the world," says Ásta. She's the CEO of a large company and has three children. She probably often feels like she can conquer the world.

"Go to yoga," says Linda. "You just have to relax. Don't you have too much to do at work? And you have tried essential oils?"

Excerpted from The Night Guest by Hildur Knútsdóttir. Copyright © 2024 by Hildur Knútsdóttir. Excerpted by permission of Tor Nightfire. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.