Within the torrent of laughter and the raised judgemental voices running interference over each other, Izzy’s friend lowers her eyes, then her head, and scurries clear of the scrum, abandoning Izzy.

A second girl, and the thief of her unicorn, has been laughing unkindly but is now furious. ‘Knew you was hiding in here. Grass!’

Izzy is pushed hard and falls to her backside.

A sharp communal inhalation of momentarily shocked children sucks at the air in the room, before the space again resounds with laughter.

Izzy makes no attempt to rise, and tears up.

‘Chantelle. Don’t!’ another girl cries out in an unconvincing and half-giggled appeal for restraint.

One of the boys proves he’s both quick and aggressive with his hands. He darts in and unclips what will be the second unicorn Izzy’s destined to lose from her rucksack within the same week. ‘Got it!’ he cries before stooping and pinching the fingers of one hand upon the dry wing of the dead bird on the floor. This he tosses at Izzy in exchange for the unicorn. ‘Swap ya!’

The bird lands between Izzy’s spread ankles with a parched rattle.

Behind the boy, the gang spring back, horrified by the bird’s corpse yet more than able to shriek out their mirth.

Izzy’s face hardens and her teary eyes narrow. With her bewilderment subsiding, and perhaps because of her unfortunate familiarity with similar situations, she finally summons a glare for her tormentors. Though not for long. Soon, as if distracted by something beyond the room, or as if someone has just called to her from a distance, she raises her face to the grubby skylight and peers intently at the very place from where that long single note originates. A thin sound, as reedy and eerie as those produced by primitive pipes made of bone. It comes to her as faint as a faraway ship’s horn or train whistle, softened and made mysterious by the enchantment of distance.

Only she appears to hear the music because only she is staring at the skylight, and growing preoccupied enough to entirely ignore the hostile children. It’s as if Izzy now yearns to see who it is who calls to her from afar. No distraction will be permitted to break her expectant vigil. Izzy’s hand slips inside the pocket of her cardigan and reappears clutching the small bone carving that Flo gave her that morning. Ancient figurative art depicting a wheel or sun.

‘What’s Smelly Belly doin’?’ the girl who pushed her over asks everyone in the room.

Izzy stands up and closes her eyes.

‘Freakin’ out,’ replies the boy with the unicorn gripped in a sweaty fist.