She steps forward as the people around her rush past, fanning out across the space. She slows, stops.

‘Rose?’

Titch is waiting for her. She has a sign, in case Rose doesn’t recognise her. They’ve met twice now, once at the school gates and once at home, with her foster carer Graeme and Caz, the social worker. But Rose would have recognised her anywhere.

Rose doesn’t acknowledge her, though. Her face is frozen. Not that she knows it. Every ounce of her effort goes into looking. At Titch, and at everyone and everything else. The vaulting arches of the station. The crowds. The clothes. The pattern of tiles on the floor.

‘Rose?’ says Titch again.

Rose marshals herself and dutifully meets the older woman’s gaze.

Titch’s eyes flicker under the pressure of Rose’s stare. She looks away, then back again.

‘This way,’ she says.

Rose follows Titch down the escalator.

She focuses on the top of Titch’s head. Her blonde hair has artful roots. Her neck is tanned, with lines of white in its creases. She wears a top, wide at the neck and long in the arms, that shows a broad, tanned back spotted with moles. She carries a handbag.

Rose wonders if she should have a handbag. She holds tight to the moving black plastic rail.

At the bottom, they walk through tunnels, then go down again. This escalator is longer. The roof arcs above them. Rose looks to the bottom. As they go, they pass dozens of posters, so many they start to repeat themselves. It feels like forever. At the bottom, people step off the escalator neatly, like parcels coming off a conveyor belt, and split into different streams walking down different, narrower, rounder tunnels. Tiled cold walls, clacking feet, and Titch, in front, walking swiftly, handbag in one hand.

Rose takes her other hand.

Titch looks sharply back, shocked, and then whips her face to the front again. Rose lets the hand drop. Titch’s feet skitter, a momentary stumble, but she keeps her eyes ahead.

They come to the platform. Now Titch turns, and smiles. ‘Here we go. This is my line.’

A gush of warm air roars down the tunnel. Rose grabs for Titch’s hand. This time she holds on tight as the train roars in. Her panic subsides as it slows and stops, slick and tidy and without fuss. The doors slide, and they step on, and she’s still holding Titch’s hand even though she’s OK now, because neither of them knows how to let go. They stand around the pole in the centre, and Titch’s face is pale, and scared, and Rose doesn’t know why Titch would be scared but feels a swell of pride that, now, she isn’t. She drops Titch’s hand.

The train moves smoothly off.