‘What are you still doing here?’ a fifth former asked as a group of fifth formers passed him. The boy shrugged. ‘Idiot. Get going. Run.’ The boy took off and laughter echoed in the corridor. He knew if he was quick enough he could get to the end of the building before they entered the quadrangle and there he’d be able to hide in the bushes until it was clear to run down beside the administration building and onto the hockey oval.

The bushes, a hedge of tea trees, pushed at him as if saying, ‘You should be lining up for dinner.’ Some scratched at his arms, but soon they stopped pushing and scratching and concealed him, protected him in their world of sharp smells and tiny leaves on long, scratching fingers. Voices passed him, then all was silent. He crept forwards, the bushes whispered around his ears. He watched the last line of boys enter the dining room. He ran from the bush to the oval and dropped down by the steps. Some day boys stood near the front gate. He quickly pushed his fingers into the dirt – it was wet this time – and wiggled his fingertips, searching. Then he felt it, still sharp, still snagging. He pushed and closed his hand around it. He didn’t need to look, he knew what he had. He thrust it into his pocket and ran to the dining hall, slapping the sand and dirt from his hands.

‘Where have you been, Harper?’ the sixth former demanded.

‘I was at your common room and had to go to the toilet,’ he replied.

The sixth former looked back, angry. ‘You should be on dinner duty, not going to the toilet. Lock is standing in line for you,’ the sixth former said.

The boy ran to the line. Lock, another second former, was towards the front.

‘What are you doing?’ a fifth former asked.

‘Swapping with Lock.’

Lock punched someone behind him and ran laughing from the line. The boy grabbed two plates and beat Lock back to the table.