But where am I?

It’s night time, and tall buildings rise up either side of the busy road. I’m in a city. And it’s freezing cold.

I lean against a post, the icy wind slicing through my jacket and jeans. My energy is low. Really low. I must have lost a lot during the terrible journey here.

Beside me, on the footpath, a river of people hurries by – men and women in long coats, gloves and scarves, carrying briefcases and backpacks. I scan their faces even though I know it’s unlikely that Mum’s still here.

I find the photo of Mum in my pocket and, with numb fingers, thrust it at a man walking by. ‘Have you seen her? Three weeks ago.’ My breath comes out in a white cloud. ‘She was wearing blue pants and a black singlet.’

He gives me a smile and glances at the photo. ‘No, sorry.’ He has an English accent.

I show the photo to a dozen people, but none of them recognise her.

Mum’s probably long gone and far away, with no idea that I’ve come to take her home. Or what if I made a mistake about the patch of grass Mum left from and this is not even the right universe?

I lean against the wall of a closed cafe. I’m more exhausted by the minute, my legs shaky and weak. Something brushes my cheek and I look up at bits of white drifting in the streetlight. It’s the first time I’ve seen snow, but it’s not enchanting like I’d expected. It’s just cold.

I set off to find a tree to recharge, but my progress is horribly slow. Just past a brightly lit bakery, a kid busks in a doorway, flipping cards in a magic trick I know well. Little magic, of course. An old guy is watching, and drops a coin into the hat upturned on the footpath. He has a kind face.

‘Excuse me,’ I say to the man. ‘Do you know where the nearest old tree is?’ Even my voice sounds blurry.

‘Oi!’ shouts the kid, who looks about ten. ‘Don’t interrupt. He’s my customer.’

The old man smiles. ‘There’s a park down one of these streets.’ He points. ‘That way.’

The kid glares at me. ‘Pay up or move on.’

I show the kid my photo of Mum. ‘Have you seen her?’ If Mum had walked past someone doing a card trick, she would have stopped, for sure.

The kid doesn’t even bother to look. ‘No.’

‘I can see the card up your sleeve,’ I say, feeling mean. ‘That’s very amateur. There are lots of better ways to hide it.’

The kid – are they a boy or a girl? – flings down their grubby cards. ‘Go away!’