When he finished, Marc licked his fingertips and realised he was thirsty. The golden sunset of ten minutes earlier was now just a purple fringe above the tree line. As he crept back towards Tomas’ cottage he noticed the brand new bike resting against the side of the house and did some instant maths:

BIKE + MONEY = FREEDOM

Marc had lived his entire twelve years in the orphanage and had never ventured further than the nearest village and neighbouring farms, except for one five-night stay in the Beauvais infirmary, which he barely remembered because he’d been delirious with a severe case of measles.

The bike and the money were his best ever chance to escape, but running away would be the biggest decision of Marc’s life and just considering it made him breathless.

Impossibly excited, Marc looked around to make sure that he was still alone before stepping back into the cottage. He filled a glass with tap water and drained it in four huge gulps while questions bubbled in his head.

Marc was no fantasist. Running away would be hard. At twelve years old he was sure to be caught eventually and returned to Director Tomas for multiple beatings, a week on bread and water and months sleeping in the unheated barn – assuming it was rebuilt in time.

On the other hand he could barely stand the thought of another night crammed in the hot attic room, with the constant pressure to act tough while lads fought the same tedious battles. All his life he’d wanted to go on a train, spend a night under the stars, steal eggs from a chicken coop and ride the lift to the top of the Eiffel Tower …

The war, however, was a severe complication. He’d heard that many roads were badly damaged, although that was much less of a problem for a bicycle than a truck.

And what would happen if the Germans got him, rather than the French police? Then again, would it be any better if he waited around until the Germans reached the orphanage? And maybe if he got far enough south they’d never get him at all. But then where would he go? Would there be anyone to give him food and put a roof over his head once the money ran out?

Marc stepped towards the larder cupboard. He opened the door and stared at the old salt tin with the director’s savings inside, as every question he asked himself spawned two more. He knew he’d never be able to answer all – or even most – of them. He realised there was only one question that really mattered:

Do I have the guts to run away, or am I all mouth like Lanier says I am?