This plain is Rat’s home. Its blistering sun is her sun, its thistles and parched hummocks and reeds are the only vegetation she knows. Occasionally she’s been up into the mountains—to the market at Brix, or camping in the Cerdagne. But for the most part, Rat’s world is flat and tricornered, bound by three markers: the beach, where they also buy their groceries; the village, where she goes to school; and home.

Rat’s territory isn’t big—it’s one kilometer from her house to the sea, and another kilometer to the village—but within it, she has abounding freedom.

A gang of children from Chez Ernest have followed her and Jérôme to the bunker. A man calls, and three of them disappear, leaving only a tall towheaded boy. A boy without brothers or sisters, who belongs to nobody visible.

“What are you doing?” the boy wants to know.

Neither she nor Jérôme bothers to reply.

“How did you get up there?”

Jérôme and Rat slide down the bunker and scramble up again, down and up, heedless, just to show him how easy it is. He watches them. “Should I take my sandals off?” They don’t answer.

He starts to climb, but his jellies get in his way. He stops to unfasten them. Holds them in his hand, as if he intends to carry his sandals with him. Finally drops them back down as timorously as if they might explode.

Crawls higher, clumsily, painfully. Then stops, spread-eagled, just where the angle gets sheer and there are no more bumps in the cement for finger-or toe-holds.

Jérôme and Rat peer down at him.

The kid’s trying to make it look as if he’s just taking a leisurely break in his climb, pausing to enjoy the view, but they can see he’s paralyzed with fright.

“I’m stuck,” he says, finally. “What do I do now?”

“What do you want to do, go up or down? You might as well come up, you’re almost here.”

“I can’t. I’m scared.”

They watch with genuine puzzlement. Jérôme’s sister Solenne’s only three years old, and she can scamper up the side of the bunker like a monkey. This kid’s way bigger than they are. They’ve never heard of anybody’s getting stuck. Either you’re too little to do it, or you do it.

Jérôme climbs down, and helps him back to the bottom. The boy’s legs are trembling so hard he can hardly stand. They wait for him to go away but instead, he stays. Sits himself down in the thistly sand, looking up at them. Rat lobs a piece of loose rubble at him to make him go away.

“Leave him alone,” says Jérôme.

“Is he a moron or what?”

“Leave him.”