The boy raised himself up, painfully. He sat back in his seat, and looked out of the window. That meant he was as far away from Michael as he could be, and his shoulders were up round his ears. The hood of his sweatshirt put his whole face in shadow, but the injuries were still visible. Conscious of them, he put his left hand up to his nose as if to wipe it, but kept it there. His eyes drifted towards the landscape again.

‘What would you like?’ said Michael.

The boy didn’t look at him.

‘She had coffee. Tea. Hot chocolate.’

‘No money,’ said the boy.

‘What?’

‘No money.’

‘I’m going to buy you one. You need a drink, all right? What do you want?’

The boy said nothing. He shook his head, and his arm moved higher so his whole face was covered. He settled lower in his seat, as if all he wanted was to sleep, undisturbed.

‘I think you should have a hot chocolate,’ said Michael quietly. ‘Wait there.’

He got up and walked down to the trolley – it was almost at the doors, because nobody had made a purchase. He placed his order and bought a KitKat. Then he bought a chicken tikka sandwich, and made his way back to his own table. The boy seemed to be dozing, and Michael set the items down in front of him.

There was no movement.

Michael climbed back into his own place, and busied himself with his coffee. He got the cardboard carton open and removed the first of the egg sandwiches. Then he reached over and opened the chicken, as if the boy might struggle with the seal. Minutes passed, and the train sped through fields. At last, the boy huddled forward and took the hot chocolate. He sipped it, and Michael saw again that his right hand was bandaged.

‘Thank you,’ he said.

The train was slowing down, and it was like watching a bird come a little closer, to take a crust. He was like a mongrel dog, or a rat, even.

‘Have you had an accident?’ said Michael.

The boy shook his head, but again it was a flinching movement.

‘Where are you going?’

Silence.

‘Home,’ he said at last.

‘Where’s home?’