But B. He looks different. Shinier. Scrubbed. The leather jacket is gone, and the biker boots he’s worn his entire adult life, and the struggle of a beard always light on his chin that shouts of the little boy who’s never grown up. He used to look tether-less, a wild pony, but now he looks tamed and it’s wrong. He’s in uniform. His hair’s severely combed. He doesn’t look any more like the family friend who loudly magicked sweets from ears and theme tunes from pianos; he looks like someone else.
The new lot.
As if the old B’s been stolen and replaced.
Mouse clamps his hand at his mouth as if he’s going to be sick. ‘When are we getting out? What are those noises in the night? Where are Mum and Dad? What’s happening, what?’
But the man Motl trusts with his life — and his children’s — is ignoring all the talk, he’s backing out fast, singing cheerily that he’ll be returning soon with some food and not to worry, just wait.
But leaving a tumble of questions churning, churning in his wake.
Rough is the road.