Mrs. Roslund is a hoot. She’s a tiny old lady—so small that Princess looks like a normal-sized dog next to her—with a long white braid hanging over her shoulder and a kind, wrinkly face. She moves slowly but with determination, and she’s loud. I had no idea a small body like hers could make such booming noises.
“Oh-ho, David, I see you took my advice,” she says when she opens her door and lets us in. She holds out her hand to me and I accept it. Her grip is surprisingly strong. “And you, sir, are even better-looking in person. If only I were fifty years younger.” She winks, then chortles. “What am I saying? I wouldn’t have stood a chance anyway since you’re playing for his team.” She elbows David in the waist, and he looks at her with fondness shining from his eyes.
“You never know, Ma’a
