Occasionally, looking between the tents packed together on the steep hillsides, Casey could see all the way down to the rice paddies. The flagrant green of the rice was a shock against the browns and greys. Below them, the Bangladeshi farmers still worked, near the heart of the camp.

‘And in England, they rage about refugees at Calais.’ Hessa half-smiled.

They could hear the children chanting in madrassas as they walked up the path.

‘There’s always the money for the mosques somehow.’ Savannah chewed at her lip. ‘They’re the best buildings in the camps, always. It’s Saudi money, every time. Still,’ she brightened. ‘Somewhere more solid for the refugees to hide if a cyclone comes.’

After Casey’s phone call the night before, Savannah had asked Romida’s mother to meet them at a feeding centre, half a mile from her tent. The refugees queued up at these centres in the mornings, clutching their ration cards. But the big blocks were locked and abandoned at this hour.

Casey had asked to meet Shamshun at a distance from her tent. ‘Because we don’t know if the people who took Romida are still operating here. And we don’t want them to know that journalists are searching for Romida. It could be dangerous for us. And it could be fatal for Romida.’

‘Sure,’ Savannah had said easily. ‘I did ask the women to keep it quiet, when I asked around. And they keep their secrets, the women of this camp.’

But when they got to the feeding centre, Shamshun had not come alone. As the little group crowded into a small office, Shamshun pointed to the teenager beside her.

‘Shamshun says this girl is called Jamalida,’ said the translator. ‘Shamshun arrived in the camp from Rakhine just a few months ago. Jamalida’s family came across at the same time.’

Casey looked at Jamalida, familiar somehow, and realised. She was the girl in the orange scarf, next to Romida in the photograph. Casey had stared at that photograph, again and again. Jamalida was the girl with the big wide smile and bright red lipstick, as Romida turned shyly from the camera.

But Jamalida was crying now, shrinking away from Shamshun, smearing the black kohl that lined her eyes. She looked much younger than thirteen.

‘Speak,’ Shamshun snapped, Layla translating impassively. ‘Tell them about my daughter.’

Wiping her nose, staring at the floor, Jamalida started to speak.

‘They were so friendly, at first. They brought us food, sweets even.’

The refugees got a fixed amount every month of lentils, rice and cooking oil. Enough not to starve, in theory, although many of the children across the camp had the skinny limbs and the hollowed eyes of the perpetually malnourished.