The first night I’m put in a room with four other girls and bunk beds with pink quilts. I would like to be on top because it would be more work for a man to climb up, and I’m sure he wouldn’t care which one of us he chose. They won’t let me though because of my arm, so I have to lie on the bottom, listening to the creaks in the wood. I hear the other girls tossing off the blankets, murmuring names, sighs and shouts. I hear quiet crying. I hear one girl banging her head against the wooden frame of the bunk. I never close my eyes or my ears as I lie looking at the wriggling shape in the mattress above me. I hear the door of the bedroom open and feel a presence in the doorway. The person stands for some time, listening, then they gently close the door and walk away. This is the first night in many nights that I’m not awake because of what somebody else is doing to me. This night I’m awake because my mind won’t let me rest: images of Sammy curled into a tight ball in the back of the car playing over and over.

The next morning, the girls start chattering in a mixture of Romanian and English. Chit-chat: where are you from? When did you last see your mama? Just how old are you? Have you started bleeding? Do you think these people are kind? I think the women here are very kind. I am so hungry, says one. Me too, says another. I don’t feel hungry. A girl called Katya says she is thirteen although she looks to be about seventeen. They seem happy, excited even. One girl starts braiding another girl’s hair. They are discussing their favourite dresses: blue with polka dots, says one. I love stripes, says another.

‘What is your favourite colour?’

I can’t answer.

‘Mine is yellow, what is yours?’ says the girl who banged her head against the wooden frame. I look at her head to see if there is a lump.

‘Why are you looking at me so strangely?’ she says.

I look away.

‘Cat got your tongue?’ says the older girl. ‘Show us your tongue.’

I can feel Irina scraping down my tongue, Sammy watching, and I run out of the room, followed by the girl’s whispers: what’s wrong with her? I wish she wasn’t in our room. She’s no fun, no fun at all.

‘Create and imagine,’ a woman says. ‘I feel like … an animal, happy, sad, angry … a clown? Happy on the outside, but crying inside?’ I think of my sad clown from the travelling circus and then an image of the bear in the cage catches in my mind, playing over and over. I shake my head.