He picked up his Magic 8 Ball and gave it a shake. Do my parents love me? He peered at the answer, which appeared faintly in the window. Don’t count on it. He threw the ball across the room.

Evan’s bedroom was at the back of the house, overlooking the garden. Aster was angry with their mother for forcing them to move, but he didn’t feel the same way. It meant he never again had to see Lucas Naylor, who was twice his size with a mouth to match, or worry about who to play with at lunchtime. Yes, he’d be on his own when he started at his new school, but he could handle that. Much worse to have had a gang of friends who, thanks to Lucas, were too scared to play with him than to have none at all.

The early-morning sun was chasing shadows from the grass. When he was younger, Evan had believed his shadow was his soul, and the darker it was, the naughtier he’d been. Now he was nine, he knew better. Although sometimes he checked, just to be sure.

Birdsong drifted in through the open window. A bank of roses, all pale yellows and pinks, edged the lawn, which was narrow but long. At the far end of the garden, leaning against the plums and polished leaves, was a tree house, windows black with shadow, wood bleached and cracked by the sun.

It looked old and rickety and full of secrets.

Evan itched to scramble up the ladder and explore, but his mother had forbidden him. His thoughts strayed back to last night’s conversation, as he’d got himself ready for bed.

“Can I climb the tree house, Mum?”

“Not now, love. It’s bedtime.”

Evan had stopped brushing, his mouth full of toothpaste. “Tomorrow?”

“Dad’s worried about the ladder being rotten. And the rope. We’ll sort it out on the weekend.”

Evan had rinsed out his mouth and laid his toothbrush carefully on the enamel sink. In their old house, they’d had a toothbrush holder. It was a small thing, but he’d felt a longing for the familiar.

“Maybe I could climb the tree instead. I’m good at climbing trees.”

“I don’t think so, love. It’s pretty high. And a heck of a long way to fall.”

“Can you lift me up, then?” He’d shrugged on his sleeveless undershirt, too hot for pajamas. “You could watch me.”

“Not now, Evan.” she said, drawing the sheet over him, impatience coloring her tone. “Let’s leave it until the weekend, okay?”

And then she had kissed his forehead and gone downstairs.

She was always looking for excuses, his mother. Excuses not to play soccer or cards or climb a plum tree. But that was last night. And this was a new day.

Evan leaned his forehead against the glass, his eyes fixed on the tree house at the end of the garden, bracketed by bushes and overlooking the murk of a copse.

The ladder didn’t look rotten, just old.