, I hope, we can get out of here.

I know it’s a bit early to be saying that as we follow Anya into the house. I haven’t met the orphanage adults yet or introduced them to this little bundle or thanked them for the powdered milk.

Or been given it.

But I’ve just had a horrible thought. Gabriek was expecting me back from the military welfare office ages ago. He asked me to come straight home to tell him where the baby was going.

He’ll be worried. When Gabriek gets worried, he starts drinking. People with a lot of alcohol inside them don’t like unpleasant surprises, it’s a medical fact. So me coming back home with an unwelcome baby could be a disaster.

I try to think of happier things. Like powdered milk. I hope the baby’s thinking about happier things too. He looks like he is. He’s gazing up at a beautiful chandelier above us in the entrance hall.

I gaze too. It’s the biggest chandelier I’ve ever seen. A hundred candles at least. Before the war, when it was undamaged, it probably had two hundred.

Amazing.

A boy a bit younger than me is standing at the top of a step-ladder, polishing the crystal candle-holders one by one.

Poor kid. He’s going to be there for hours.

The boy is concentrating so hard on not spilling any wax and not falling off the ladder, he doesn’t notice us at first.

‘Hello, Bolek,’ says Anya. ‘This is Felix.’

Bolek glances down.

‘Hello,’ he says.

‘Hello,’ I say, wondering where I’ve seen him before. He looks sort of familiar.

But I don’t wonder about that for long, because suddenly I smell it. The musty woody leathery smell I’ve missed so much. The wonderful warm sweet dusty smell that only comes from one thing.

Books.

I breathe it in. You just don’t get this smell with a library of two medical textbooks.

The last time I smelled this I was six.

In our bookshop.

With Mum and Dad.

I can’t stop myself. I want to get closer to the books. See them. Touch them. Stick my nose right into them.

I head up the hallway, not caring that visitors should let hosts lead the way in case any of the floorboards have got dry rot or bomb damage.

I step into a large room.

Walls of books, floor to ceiling. Almost none of the shelves are broken. And there are ladders so you can get to the top shelves.

Just like we had.

My eyes are going a bit emotional. I only realise there’s someone else in the room when I see a blurry movement.

Suddenly I feel very rude. Wandering into some­body’s book room without being invited.

‘Sorry,’ I say, rubbing my eyes.

‘No need,’ says a deep soft voice.

I blink.

A man is looking at me with an amused smile. He’s tall with neatly combed hair. He’s wearing a very clean suit without a single crease showing. The boy in the hallway must be good at washing and ironing too.

‘And who are you?’ says the man.

His smile is warm and friendly, which you don’t often see these days.

‘I’m Felix,’ I say.

‘Welcome, Felix,’ he says. ‘I’m Doctor Lipzyk.’

He holds out his hand.

I shake it.

Anya comes in. She’s taken off her coat. She points at mine and I take it off while she holds the baby.

I feel a bit out of place in this big luxury room with its own chandelier and fireplace and a rug with hardly any holes and millions of books. If the curtains in here are made from sacks, they’re very high quality ones.

‘This is the person I was telling you about,’ Anya says to Doctor Lipzyk. ‘He’s going to be a doctor.’

Doctor Lipzyk smiles.

‘Always a pleasure to meet a colleague,’ he says.

I don’t feel embarrassed because Doctor Lipzyk sounds like he means it.

Anya hands the baby back to me.

‘Patient of yours?’ says Doctor Lipzyk.

‘Sort of,’ I say.

‘May I?’ he says.

Doctor Lipzyk takes the baby and examines him, feeling his arms and legs and tummy and looking closely into his eyes and ears and mouth.

‘Few flea bites,’ murmurs Doctor Lipzyk, ‘but otherwise seems quite healthy.’

‘Felix has adopted him,’ says Anya. ‘I said you might be able to give him some milk.’

Doctor Lipzyk doesn’t scowl like most people would if you asked them to give away food. He just nods and says, ‘Fresh or powdered?’

I stare at him.

At first I think he’s joking. In this city, fresh milk is rarer than full sets of parents.

‘Powdered would be best,’ says Anya. ‘So he can get it home without spilling it or getting killed for it.’

Doctor Lipzyk nods and hands the baby back to me.

‘Let me organise that,’ he says. ‘And I’ll mix up some tonic drops. Your little one’s looking a bit anaemic.’

‘Thank you,’ I say.

Doctor Lipzyk is amazing. He’s exactly the sort of doctor I want to be. Kind, skilful and excellent at making people feel relaxed and like they’ve got good vocabularies.

‘Excuse me for saying this, Felix,’ says Doctor Lipzyk gently. ‘But that baby needs a bath.’

‘I know,’ I say hastily. ‘I’m planning to give him one.’

Doctor Lipzyk smiles.

‘Look after our visitors, Anya,’ he says, and goes.

I turn to Anya.

‘You’re so lucky,’ I say. ‘Living here.’

I know this is the second time I’ve said it, but I can’t help myself. She is lucky.

Anya frowns. And shrugs.

I’m amazed. How could anybody not be grateful about living here?

I look around at the bookshelves again. And notice something even more amazing.

It’s so amazing I don’t believe it at first.

I look more closely, shelf after shelf.

They’re all medical books.

‘Anya,’ I say weakly. ‘Would you mind holding the baby again?’

She takes him from me. I take a book from a shelf. A book about bones in humans, including, I’m interested to see, leg bones.

‘Felix,’ says a voice.

At first I don’t know where I am. I’m studying a colour illustration of a spleen and I don’t want to take my eyes off it.

‘Felix.’

I look up.

Anya is standing there, holding the baby.

I blink. The baby is about two shades pinker than I’ve ever seen him. And his bundle is different. It’s clean and new and fresh.

‘Thanks,’ I say.

Doctor Lipzyk is standing behind her, smiling. He hands me a paper bag and a small bottle. The bag has powdered milk in it, and the bottle has tonic drops.

‘Thank you very much, sir,’ I say.

‘Give him two drops three times a day in boiled water,’ says Doctor Lipzyk. ‘First ones as soon as you get home.’

My tummy lurches.

Home.

Gabriek.

I haven’t got a clue how long I’ve been here.

‘Before you go,’ says Doctor Lipzyk, ‘sit down and have some hot chocolate. And some warm milk for the baby.’

A boy and a girl are standing next to him, both about my age. Both are carrying trays.

I can’t say no. They’ve already made it. Plus I haven’t had chocolate for years.

I’ll drink it quickly.

We all sit at a table. Doctor Lipzyk pours from a silver jug and hands me a cup. I gulp the hot drink. It’s the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted.

But even hot chocolate isn’t enough to stop me feeling anxious about Gabriek.

I’ll give the baby the warm milk and we’ll go.

It takes me ages to drip the milk out of the bottle into the baby’s mouth. And mop up the rest with the towel an older girl kindly brings.

Now I’m frantic at how late we are.

I stand up.

‘Sorry to be rude, sir,’ I say to Doctor Lipzyk. ‘But we have to go. Thank you for everything. You’re very kind and your orphanage is brilliant.’

‘Very nice of you to say so,’ says Doctor Lipzyk. ‘I do what I can. This is a dark and difficult time for young people. Many go astray.’

I’m not sure exactly what he means, so it’s hard to reply.

Then it gets even harder because the boy who brought the hot chocolate clears away the cups, and suddenly I realise something.

Him and the other boy in the hall cleaning the chandelier, I’ve seen them both before. On the back of an army food truck.

They’re both in Anya’s gang.

Which is extremely confusing.

Why would people living in the most luxurious orphanage in Europe secretly run around the city in grubby coats stealing petrol?

I manage to finish thanking Doctor Lipzyk, and Anya sees me to the door.

In the hallway she holds the baby while I stow the powdered milk and tonic drops safely in the secret coat pockets Gabriek made. I do it with my back to her so they stay secret.

While I’m doing that, I ask Anya what’s going on. If I’m going to be in her gang, I need to know what’s what.

There’s no reply.

I turn to her.

She’s not there. The baby is lying on the carpet and the front door is open. I see Anya in the garden, kneeling in front of a couple of spindly rose bushes.

I pick the baby up and go out. At first I think Anya is smelling the roses, then I see she’s not.

She’s being sick into them.

‘Are you alright?’ I say.

Anya finishes throwing up, wipes her mouth, grabs a spade, and covers the sick with dirt.

She turns to me, her face hard and angry.

‘You shouldn’t have seen that,’ she says. ‘And if you ever tell Doctor Lipzyk or anyone else, I’ll make you wish you hadn’t.’

She goes inside and shuts the door.

I stare at the spade and the patch of dirt.

Now I’m even more confused. If you live with the world’s kindest doctor and you’re not well, why wouldn’t you want him to know?