Grey snow feels like wet salt: fluid. Walking through it feels unnatural, as if driving a sled or carving paths through dense jungle.
One of them was asleep on my front; the other one tugged at my hand, slouching her way down the wet, cobbled street. Both were deathly tired.
It was only a few streets away from the hotel, and they were open about the fact that they spoke English.
That was important, as neither of us had a whole amount of Swedish that we could rely upon.