On my way home, I spot Jorzy and two of his workmates up ahead. I’m about to call out, but an air of tension about the men makes me hesitate. Instead, I trail them at a distance. The streets are busy with Cerels going home from their factory jobs and workshops. A crowded tram trundles past, the people inside looking blank as cattle. Jorzy and the two men turn into a pub. Cupping my hands to the thick, warped glass, I can see the place is full of working men standing at the bar and around tall tables. These will be the men who have in one way or another avoided the wild camps – whether they’re too young like Jorzy, or old, or disabled in some way. One older man looks to be paralysed down one side, while another is missing a hand.

Hunching into my big jacket, I creep inside. Nobody takes much notice. Jorzy and a man with a thick moustache are standing at a high table, while a third man is hobbling back from the bar with a jug of beer and three mugs. I hunker down on the sawdust floor in a corner nearby, knees to my chest, like a boy waiting for his father. One or two glances are sent my way, but I ignore them and am left alone.

Jorzy is talking to the two men, their heads close together. Maybe he’s telling one of his stories, except that all three of them are frowning. My brother is thin, I notice – thinner than most of the others. He looks like a twig that could be snapped in a wind. My brother, the storyteller. Then I catch something below the hubbub of the place, and the words jolt me out of my thoughts.

“We are prisoners in our own city,” says Jorzy, though not loudly.

Even among our own people, it’s best not to say things like that too loud.

“Here’s what I propose we do,” Jorzy adds, eyes blazing like when he’s got some wild new idea or project, and I can tell he’s cooking up some kind of plan.

Then my brother’s voice sinks to a whisper and I can’t make out anything more, no matter how much I’m straining to hear. The man with the moustache puts his clenched fist on the table. The other one drinks down his mug of beer in one long pull.

The voices of the men in the pub rise and fall, like a rough kind of song or the telling of a long story. Feeling tired in the warmth of the place, I rest my forehead on my arms. My days spent roaming around the city fade into a loose dream of faces and sounds.