The next morning I wake to sunlight seeping through the rim of the curtains. I hear a bird singing: it sounds like the song of a blackbird from home. I rub my eyes and stretch my body long, pointing my toes. This must be Sunday; it’s the only day Mama doesn’t get out of bed before sunrise. I swing my legs over the side of the bed, holding on tightly to the sheets. The world is spinning again. I look around and see a shape in the bed beside me, long dark hair spilling out over the back of the quilt. She’s making light singing sounds. I go to the window and pull back the curtains a little. The girl in the bed stirs and mumbles. I can smell the weak sunshine and think I see green leaves rustling in the breeze.

I find the kitchen, where there are cardboard boxes laid out on the table. One of the boxes says cornflakes and there’s a picture on the back of a jug pouring milk. After I’ve eaten three bowls, moist with milk, I walk to the front door and try to pull back the bolt.

Irina appears at the top of the stairs. ‘It is locked. We cannot have the neighbours see you.’

I wonder about these neighbours. Are they families, or men who will use us? It seemed very empty and quiet last night; there were no lights on in the houses.

‘It’s a residential area,’ she says. ‘Too risky.’

I’m not sure what she means exactly – risky for whom? – but she has that set to her face that Mama used to wear when she was angry, and I know not to ask any questions.

‘Did you eat breakfast?’ I nod. I am craving fresh air. ‘Cat got your tongue?’

My tongue feels like it doesn’t belong to me, neither do my limbs, my head, my hair, my fingers, my nails. Every part of me feels like it might float away.

‘Don’t worry about it,’ she says. ‘Just the sleepers.’

A shaft of sunlight burns through a small window in the hall, and lands in a puddle at my feet. I move my right foot into the light, and then my whole body. I let it flow through me, warming every part of me. My eyes close.

‘You’ll build tolerance, you’ll see,’ Irina says, speaking harshly in English, sounding like she’s someone else, before she turns on her bare-footed heel and is gone.

I’m left standing, swaying in the light, wondering about the word ‘tolerance’. Even though I don’t fully understand it, I’m not sure it’s something I would want to build.

I follow the light from puddle to puddle, imagining I’m splashing about in my rain boots at home, until I hear a door creak and a girl appears.