My held-breath moment lasts too long, the lid closes down, everything falls dark and I crash to the bottom of the well. When I hit the ground I curl up on my side. The air is liquid and I drink it in, drowning.

My eyes are shocked open, and I sit up, fending Papa off with my hands as he throws water on my face. Luca is trying to pull him away from me. Where is Mama? I see her through a blurry lens, slumped on a chair staring at the man with a look that is full of poisonous arrows.

The man says, ‘Is she sick? I will not take her if she is sick.’

Mama jumps off the chair and goes to pummel Papa on his shoulders. ‘Of course the child is sick, why else do you think this man is getting rid of her? His own daughter?’

Papa turns on Mama, grabs her hands and tells her to quieten down, staring into her eyes. It’s as if she is mesmerised: her shoulders slump forward, her body seems to lose its substance, its fight, its desire to draw breath even, as she stills to an empty silhouette, an outline of the woman of flesh and blood of a moment before. Mama has disappeared, the struggle over. She knows what will happen if she continues to fight.

The rest of the leave-taking happens as if behind a gauze: woozy and out of focus. Mama is so still, it’s as if she has been turned to stone. Where is Papa? Papa? I cannot see him. The boys? Luca is there, at the door, his emotions swirling and visible to me, almost too big to be contained by his skin. Almost. He lets me go without a fight. They all let me go.

The suitcase is banging against my ankles, its useless contents bulging against the piece of string that looks like it might snap. The man doesn’t slow down, even though his legs are twice as long as mine, and he watches me struggle with the case. Maybe Papa will change his mind and claim me back as his? Luca? I have to trot to keep up with the man. ‘Where are we going?’ I ask after some time. There is no sign of anyone coming after me. My question is answered by silence and a quickening of the man’s stride. I follow, not knowing why I follow, head down, feet tripping in my too-tight shoes, the red dust clinging to the polish and the spit. The man tells me to hurry, that a car is waiting for us. My heart is banging so wildly it feels like it might crash through my ribcage.