The number 5.

According to the screen, the number 5 was 7 minutes away. I looked over my shoulder for the third or fourth time, fully aware that hanging out alone at a dimly lit bus stop at 10:30 pm in an unfamiliar neighbourhood was not the safest scenario I could have gotten myself into. I sat down on the bench and opened my book to the dog-earred page. Suddenly out of the corner of my eye, to my left, I saw a man approaching. He hurried over to the bus stop and stood in front of me. He had a big, bushy, black beard and was clutching a stack of books with both hands. He began asking me questions in garbled Swedish. I smiled cautiously and said "I'm sorry, I don't speak Swedish very well". The last time I had told a man at a bus stop that I couldn't understand him I had to sit through a drunken Swedish rant complete with menacing finger pointing until my bus arrived. This time, the bearded-man cleared his throat and thrust the stack of books towards me, "Will you take these books, from me, for free?" I shook my head and said no thank you. He nodded. Then turned and sprinted off in the direction he came from, disappearing into the darkness.

The tram pulled up on time, 4 minutes later.