Don’s life was here now. With new children who weren’t friends, would never be, because among other things Don had a bad conscience about missing her group from Rochdale so little. The boys here were angry—they raced around the treeless streets on stolen bicycles and were so stupid that time after time they passed within the radius of a surveillance camera, and—yet another boy with a criminal charge. The girls watched in order to get a little affection. The meaning of which they didn’t understand. And which the boys understood to mean sex. There were lots of girls who had babies at thirteen that they carried around like dolls.

Adults—the ones who weren’t too depressed or strung out, it must be restrictively added—were all right. Nearly everyone in the neighborhood had been born the children of former workers. In their genetic code still floated homeopathically dosed memories of “the union,” of “solidarity,” of the power to be able to bring the entire country to a halt with a strike. The owner of a pub in the neighborhood made sure children could warm up if for whatever reason they couldn’t go home. Don was content.

A strange feeling.

For Don, Manchester-Salford was that pub where children could hang around, the girls watching Beyoncé and grime videos on their phones, the boys who left their stolen bicycles and mopeds in a pile in front of the pub.

It was the place where her brother started committing robberies in order to be accepted by the white boys, it was the place where she learned to hate the police. And to fear cell phones, which were wondrously connected to the police. Who always showed up when the children had plans to meet, and conducted degrading inspections, which included the pulling down of pants.

Manchester-Salford was the last moment before the premature coming-of-age, when Don’s world still represented an adventure playground and companionship.

At some point, after what felt like years and two centimeters of growth—only two? Yes, only two—a letter arrived from the Rochdale social welfare office. Their building—or what passed for one—was once again suitable for occupancy. The living quarters in Manchester-Salford had to be cleared out because new buildings were supposed to be built there for the disappearing middle class.

In order to enhance the value of the neighborhood, moderately appointed single-family homes would be built throughout the social housing estates and sold at so-called prevailing market prices. This made a great impression on the statistics, which would indicate that the residents were doing progressively better. Which allowed the city to look good, which for some reason or other was good, and pushed the people who truly had no money to move away. To an even more dismal area, farther north.