And Rat all of a sudden feels unable to cope. Too many officials, too many border controls, too many security cameras, none of which are able to prevent any of the world’s everyday atrocities from happening.

“You have to, Morgan.” Her voice is high, shaky.

“Into the girls’ bathroom? No way. I am not going into the girls’ bathroom.” Morgan lowers his head like a bull, folds his arms across his chest.

And Rat, to her own surprise, finds herself totally losing it. Why now, just when she’s finally heard back from her father, don’t ask. But it’s as if all the month’s strain is suddenly pitching into an inconsolable panic and rage, and it’s all Morgan’s fault.

“You are such a fucking pain in the ass, Morgan. Don’t you understand a thing by now?” she shouts at the startled boy. “Places like this are, like, the most unsafe places in the world. We are in this place where I don’t dare let you out of my sight for a second. I can’t let you go in the men’s room by yourself. You want to know about those Missing Children posters? Well, this is where all those kids get lost. Someone grabs you in the men’s room and you end up dead in a ditch.”

He looks at his feet. “I don’t need a wash that bad.”

“Yes, you do. You are fucking filthy. And if we want to have any decent chance of getting out of here and into England, we both have to look squeaky-clean. Understand? Now you come into the ladies’ room with me now, right now, or else I’m gonna …”

For a moment, they face each other, grim. Then Morgan snuffles, hikes up his shoulders, and follows her into the bathroom. Too tired and sick to fight.

Their hike back up to the campground is an almost silent ordeal. It takes far longer than Rat anticipated to get free of the ferry area, with its wasteland of grills, parking lots, and feeder roads. The sun is still hot, but Morgan is sneezing, snuffling. Walking hop-legged from his blistered ankle. Rat shoulders his knapsack as well as hers.

She takes off her flip-flops and stuffs them into an outer pocket. The asphalt is burning, there’s broken glass everywhere, but she still feels freer barefoot. They trudge up the road that rises in steep loops straight from the sea onto cliffs overlooking the Atlantic. It’s a landscape that must once have been beautiful Normandy coast, a countryside of little fishing villages, and that now has been transformed into a Zone, reconfigured as a commercial transit point for cars and trucks pouring back and forth between other Zones within the European Economic Area.

From time to time, they try thumbing for a lift, but the cars are all British, and nobody stops.