The girl is curled into such a tiny space that it seems she wants to disappear. Her feet are tucked so far up that her knees touch her narrow chin. Her trembling hands are wrapped around them. She’s been shivering for a long time.

There is little light but, somehow, she has found it and it picks out her tear-stained face, cruelly highlighting the lines of her misery. One of her arms is hurt; she is wearing a bandage and cradling it carefully. The fingers of this hand do not hold her knee as tightly as those of the other. She has sock marks: ridged indents and a tan line that begins just above her ankle bone and vanishes under a pale yellow dress. She has old scabs on her knees and a fresh cut on one skinny elbow. There is a scar on her forehead, a faint smile of white skin, a little puckered. Her dark hair has been cut short but her eyes could be any colour. They are tightly closed, as if she is wishing herself away.

And she is crying. Her tears sparkle in the dusty glow and soak into the primrose material, darkening her collar and sticking it to her skin. But she is crying silently. Sniffing into her elbow, desperately keeping quiet. She is not calling for her mother. She isn’t calling for anyone.