It is the same, but different. He recognises buildings and streets, the church close to the town square and the park on the far side, beyond which is the house where he has lived all his life. He cannot see the house because it’s hidden behind the park’s trees, and in a way he is pleased. He thinks that if he saw the pale pink walls and white window surrounds he might lose himself, run, get caught.

Get shot, he thinks.

In the days or weeks since he escaped Longford, he has not seen a single human being who is not a soldier.

And that is why the familiar town is also so different—because there is no one there. The streets are deserted and silent. No dogs or cats wander the pavements and gardens. A few screen doors hang open, a couple banging in the gentle morning breeze, and scraps of litter roll lazily along the main street. He has never seen Longford so silent.

The tall fence around the town makes it impossible to approach any closer. There are cameras topping the fence posts. They are aimed both into the town and away from it—the fence keeps him out, but perhaps it is also erected to keep something in.

With the sun behind him, the boy makes his way back up into the hills. The similarity with Mohserran and the two other creatures that call this place their home is obvious—they, too, would leave the town at sunrise and go back to their domain in the hills. Not everyone in Longford knew of their existence. Not everyone who knew welcomed it.

Perhaps he is tired, or grief is blurring his vision, but he does not see the soldier until he almost trips over her. She is sitting by a tree, and when she sees him she lets out a small cry of surprise, and then a grunt of fear. She kicks backwards and away from him, bringing her gun up and aiming it at his face.

She is the same height as him, slightly built, and her camouflage gear is grubby and stained, her face streaked with sweat and dirt. She looks very tired.

Very scared.

“No,” the boy says. It is the first word he has uttered since fleeing Longford.

“Who are you? Stay there. Don’t move.” She quickly gathers herself and is now in charge, her weapon aimed unwaveringly at his chest.

“What’s happening?” the boy asks. I have to get away, he thinks. I have to be sleek. He does not trust this soldier one bit. She’s alone, and flustered, but she’s one of them. For all he knows this gun might have shot his mother.

“Let me see your tongue,” she says. “Stick it out. All the way.”

The boy does so. She squints, looks close, then nods. He closes his mouth.

“What’s your name?”