His dad was crouching down beside him now, his arm around him. “Patrick,” he said, “we’ve talked about this before, about having a dog, haven’t we? Remember what we said? We can’t keep a dog in the flat. Mum’s out at work most of the day. You know she is, and so am I. It wouldn’t be fair on him. That’s why we got Swimsy instead, remember? You did such a brave and good thing, Patrick. Mum and me, we’re so proud of you. But keeping one of these pups just isn’t on. You know that. He needs space to play, room to run in.”

“We’ve got the park, Dad,” Patrick pleaded, his eyes filling with tears now. “Please, Dad. Please.” He knew it was hopeless, but he still wouldn’t give up.

In the end it was Mrs Brightwell who persuaded him, and that was only because he couldn’t argue with her. No one argued with Mrs Brightwell. “Tell me something, Patrick,” she said, and she was talking to him very gently, very quietly, not in her usual voice at all. “You didn’t save those puppies just so you could have one, did you?”

“No,” he replied.

“No, of course you didn’t,” she went on. “You’re not like that. You saved them because they were crying out for help. You gave them their lives back, and that was a truly wonderful thing to do. But now you have to let them go. They’ll be well looked after, I promise you.”

Patrick ran out then, unable to stop himself sobbing. He went to the toilet, where he always went when he needed to cry in private. When he got back, the box and the puppies had gone, and so had the man in the peaked cap from the RSPCA.

Mrs Brightwell told Patrick he could have the rest of the day off school, so that was something. His mum and dad took him home in the car. No one spoke a word all the way. He tried to hate them, but he couldn’t. He didn’t feel angry, he didn’t even feel sad. It was as if all his feelings had drained out of him. He didn’t cry again. He lay there all day long on his bed, face to the wall. He didn’t eat because he wasn’t hungry. His mum came in and tried to cheer him up. “One day,” she told him, “one day, we’ll live in a house with a proper garden. Then we can have a dog. Promise.”

“But it won’t be Best Mate, will it?” he said.

A little later his dad came in and sat on his bed. He tried something different. “After what you did,” he said, “I reckon you deserve a proper treat. We’ll go to the football tomorrow. Local Derby. We’ll have a pizza first, margherita, your favourite. What d’you say?”

Patrick said nothing. “A good night’s sleep is what you need,” his dad went on. “You’ll feel a lot better tomorrow. Promise.” Everyone, Patrick thought, was doing an awful lot of promising, and that was always a bad sign.