Kokoro had never gone to shop there herself, though her mother apparently had. ‘Mr Mikawa’s getting on in years, so I wonder how much longer he’ll keep coming,’ she’d said.

In the past, before the supermarket appeared in the area, it really had been convenient for the truck to drive over, and plenty of families bought its produce. But it was beginning to lose its customers. Some people even complained about the loudspeaker, calling it noise pollution.

Kokoro didn’t think it was a nuisance, but whenever she heard the melody she became, like it or not, aware that it was daytime, and a weekday. Forced to be aware of it.

She could hear children laughing.

It was only after Kokoro stopped going to school that she discovered this was what eleven o’clock in the morning was like in her neighbourhood.

While in elementary school, she only ever saw the Mikawa truck during the holidays.

She’d never listened to it so intently – on a weekday, in her bedroom, curtains drawn, her body rigid. Not until last year.

She watched TV with bated breath, the sound on mute, hoping the light from the set wouldn’t filter out through the curtains.

Even when the Mikawa truck wasn’t there, there were always young mothers and children playing in the park beyond their house. Whenever she spied the strollers lined up by the park benches, colourful bags hanging from the handles, a thought came to her: It’s not early morning any more. The families who gathered between ten and eleven always disappeared by midday, heading home to have lunch.

And then she slid open her curtains a tiny bit.

Spending so much time alone in her bedroom – gloomy during the day despite the orange curtains – feelings of guilt welled up in her. She felt she was being blamed for being slack and lazy.

At first she’d enjoyed being at home, but as time passed, though no one said anything, she knew she couldn’t carry on like this.

There were good reasons why set rules existed.

Rules like: you should open your curtains in the morning.

And all children should attend school.

TWO DAYS AGO, SHE AND her mother had visited a private alternative ‘School’ (they used the English word), and today she’d been sure she could make a start there.

Yet when she woke up, she realized it wasn’t going to happen.

As usual, her stomach was killing her.

She wasn’t faking it. It really did hurt.

She had no idea why, but in the mornings, her stomach, and sometimes even her head, pulsed with pain.

Don’t force yourself to go, her mother had said.

So when she went downstairs to the dining room, she wasn’t worried about her mother’s reaction.

‘Mum, my stomach hurts.’

Her mother had been preparing some hot milk and toast, and when she heard this her face went blank.