Mrs Radfield never told us that potential parents were coming to visit, but I always knew. She’d ask more questions than usual. ‘Have you brushed your teeth? Change that shirt. Where are your shoes?’ Things she didn’t care about, most days. And she always fiddled with my hair, trying to push down that bit at the side, and sometimes snipping off the hairs she’d missed last time I was shorn.

Thistle—or Arty, as I knew her then—always sensed it too. She looked amazing on those days. Clean clothes, jewellery she’d found somewhere and hidden from the other kids. Hair pulled back into a neat bun, exposing her bare neck, like she was trying to seduce a vampire. No wonder she got out.

I would sit on my bunk, taking deep breaths, while the other kids played outside. I didn’t want to risk joining them, because I might trip over. If the parents didn’t take me, and I had muddy knees, Mrs Radfield would assume that was why they’d turned me down. She’d hit me. Only once, and only with her hand—but she was bigger than me, and it was scary.

After hours of waiting I heard voices downstairs. ‘Come on up,’ Mrs Radfield said. ‘I’ll introduce you to Timothy. He’s quiet, but he’s a sweet kid. I think you’ll get on well.’

‘Timothy?’ a woman’s voice said uncertainly.

‘Timothy,’ a man’s voice repeated.

‘You could always change the name if you wanted to,’ Mrs Radfield said. She was pretty desperate to get rid of me, and wasn’t doing a good job of hiding it.

The government was paying her to feed and clothe us, and she was making quite a lot of money, because she never bought any food or clothing. Our outfits came from donation bins, and the food had been thrown out by local supermarkets when it reached its sell-by date. But now I was stretching the limits of Mrs Radfield’s scam. I ate too much. And the taller I got, the harder it was to find free clothes that fit me.

The door creaked open. ‘Timothy?’ Mrs Radfield said. ‘Are you in here?’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ I said, standing up from my bunk and smoothing down my shirt. I suddenly wished I had been pretending to do something. Reading Charlotte Brontë, or even just staring out the window. Now I looked like a weird kid who sat around doing nothing.

‘Can I introduce you to someone?’

‘Of course. I like meeting new people.’

Tone it down, I told myself. For Christ’s sake, act normal.

‘This is Mr and Mrs Veerhuis,’ Mrs Radfield said. ‘They’re visiting today.’

‘Call me Bob,’ the man said. He was a big guy with thinning hair and a neat little moustache. ‘And this is Lillian.’

His wife, a narrow-waisted brunette in a yellow sundress, nodded to me, but said nothing.