Shame washes over me like an ugly, slick wave. ‘You found me.’

‘I found your email address. Your school one. And that link. Not that I needed it; I could have got to that page of videos anyway. Like I said, it’s handy being good with computers.’

‘I’m…’

‘With all the running I’ve done, Josh. All the people who’ve chased me, spat at me and my mother. All the people who have smashed our windows or painted words on our garage, I know what being scared is like. Our journey to the UK was easier than some, but it still wasn’t easy. I know what fear looks like. So I know that look you have. I know you’re not one of them.’ Ahmed’s words can’t lift this new weight that’s pushing down on my chest, however kind and honest they are. ‘In first school, I remember being pinned down by older kids and forced to swear allegiances to their beliefs, to the right “sort” of people. Playground stuff, really.’

A pause.

‘Then, in the camps, there were groups of people who would be looking for … for soldiers, I guess. I was young, and my mother kept me close, but I wasn’t too young for them to notice me. What they could make me into. I know the tactics they use to get you to feel that ugly, the switches they press to make you feel like there’s no alternative. Like you’re making a good choice. And this,’ he points at Dad’s tree, ‘this is a pretty good lever to pull.’

I ask the question before I’ve thought of it. ‘So, what’s the answer?’

‘To their way of thinking? I guess it’s just your basic humanity.’

‘My what?’