In the afternoon I take a different route and follow a series of narrow alleyways – or ‘snickets’, as they’re known here – that lead out onto a cul-de-sac overlooking a green. Usually we don’t see anyone much. Being February, most people choose not to brave the weather, but it’s on one of these afternoon walks that I first see the little boy.

Well, I hear him first. A distant thumping and squeaking as we turn the corner out of the alley and Harry stops to sniff the street sign.

Thump . . . squeak . . . thump . . . squeak . . .

It’s rhythmical. I listen harder, trying to figure out what it is. It’s a peculiar sound and I can’t tell where it’s coming from. I notice Harry’s ears prick up too. We set off walking again. It sounds like it’s coming from up ahead. As we pass a few houses the thumping and squeaking grow louder . . . then suddenly I see a head. It pops up from behind the garden fence, only to disappear again. It has dark curly hair and is wearing large yellow headphones. It reappears, flying up in the air. Only a few seconds, then it’s gone again. But it’s long enough to see that it belongs to a little boy.

He’s on a trampoline. I catch sight of it now in the front garden of a pebble-dashed semi. Wedged into the corner, it’s still taking up nearly all the space on the small patch of grass. As we pause by the garden gate, Harry barks at the strange object, but the boy can’t hear him and continues jumping. I notice his face is turned to the sky as he bounces higher and higher. It’s almost like he’s trying to take off.

Harry barks even louder.

‘C’mon, boy.’

I go to pull Harry away, when the boy suddenly glances in our direction. Immediately he stops jumping and stares at us, his face appearing frozen in shock.

‘It’s OK, he’s friendly,’ I reassure him quickly – and pointlessly, I realize, as the boy can’t hear me.

I tug on Harry’s lead, but he’s taken root and is refusing to move.

For a few moments the boy continues to stare at us, before climbing off the trampoline and carefully making his way down the garden path. He’s wearing his school uniform and yet, despite the freezing temperatures, he isn’t wearing a coat. Or shoes and socks, I notice as he tiptoes carefully in his bare feet on the paving stones towards us, his face a picture of concentration.

Reaching the gate, he takes off his headphones.

‘He just got a bit scared by the noise,’ I reassure him, gesturing at Harry, who has stuffed his nose firmly through the metal swirls of the garden gate and is taking deep sniffs, as if trying to inhale the little boy.

‘Does he want to wear my ear defenders?’ The boy holds them out.