Shortly after the family had left the outskirts of Manchester behind, Don’s lust for travel had completely evaporated, and when the bus pulled into the bus terminal in London several dull hours later—the moment she’d imagined would be so intense and incredible—she just wanted to go home. She had perhaps never in her life experienced such a feeling of disappointment like that moment, because the part of her that was still a child had hoped that something miraculous would occur. When the bus driver ordered them to exit the vehicle, Don woke her so-called parents. Then they all stood there perplexed in the drizzling rain and the parents began to fight about the map. All around the bus station people lay on the floor with blankets and suitcases. Don saw a woman urinating on the curb and a baby lying on top of a duffel bag as if dead.

The group made it to the nearest pub. The parents drank on. At some point Don’s father started to cry again, because nobody was taking care of him or he was alone or he was a failure. Don’s mother fell off her stool. The children picked her up. And then they rode back.

When they arrived in Rochdale it was dark. Silently the family shuffled down the main street. Don lagged far behind, yearning. For something unusual that could save the day. For music, something loud, for love or a bank robbery. And then she saw him sitting at the entrance of the parking garage. The most beautiful person she had ever seen. A thousand times more beautiful than Beyoncé. He was slumped there, staring into the distance. Don stopped and looked at him from a few meters away. He looked so unusual here in front of this eyesore of a parking garage. As if a superstar had mistakenly wandered into the little city. Don had only ever seen someone like that in music videos or movies. As if lit from within. So perfect. So blond and thin. The boy looked truly astonishing. Here of all places. In total contrast to Rochdale. A few drunks staggered down the street, the businesses were all closed, the lights were out, no bars nearby, the Costa Café was closed as well. And the boy sat there without moving. Perhaps he was stuffed. Don sat down next to him.

“She’s gone,” said the boy after a while.

Don wasn’t interested in who was gone. In her world someone was always disappearing. Usually it had to do with legal guardians who ended up in jail, psychiatric facilities, or the cemetery. Nobody here talked about their family situation. It was boring, since it was always a variation of the same story: adults who had failed at life.