A guard comes out of one of the low wooden buildings. I watch as the man disappears around the side. “Our parents,” I say quietly, “their friends – if they had killed the Director, none of this would be happening now.”

Jorzy’s eyes flicker open. “You don’t know that. It could have been worse.”

“Worse than Papa stuck in a wild camp?” I say bitterly. “Jorzy,” I add in a low voice, looking at his sharp nose and his dark gaze scanning the empty sky, knowing I’m about to unleash something, “I know where the Director goes every morning.”

Jorzy looks at me, alert. “What did you say?”

“The Director,” I repeat patiently, “he goes to this restaurant every morning around ten.”

Jorzy grips my arm, hurting me. “Which restaurant?”

“I can show you.”

My brother nods and releases me. He rolls over and his eyes go back to the camp though I can tell he’s thinking about the Director. “Good,” he murmurs, “that could be useful. Good work, Leho.”

And my heart swells to think I might have helped my older brother. Even if it’s with something dangerous. I just wish I could do more.

* * *

After the evening meal, I walk with Ma back down the corridor to her cell-like room. “What news from the city, Leho?” she asks, touching the cane lightly to the wall.

“I heard there was a riot at one of the wild camps,” I tell her.

She grips my shoulder. “Which one?”

“Not Papa’s.” We go through the open doorway and towards her spindle chair. She sits down with a sigh.

“What happened?”

I sit on the bed, wanting to tell her a sanitised version, though she will have heard worse. “The usual.”

They shot them all, my friend Eric said.

Ma nods grimly, knowing without my saying it out loud. “Just another excuse to cull the men.” Evening light coming through the high wooden shutters on the window falls on the side of her face, colours her long hair mahogany. Her scars don’t look so bad in this light. “What was the riot about?”

“They were trying to escape. Got one of the guards.”

Eric saw everything from a copse of trees beyond the wire fence. He’s a boy who watches the wild camps. For some food or a coin, he’ll report on what he’s seen. Some Cerel women give him a photograph, if they have one, and pay him to spy out their husbands or fathers. Nobody’s allowed anywhere near the camps, but a careful boy can get close enough to see and hear what’s going on.

“Good on them,” my mother murmurs. “At least they didn’t die in vain.”

It makes me feel sick, thinking it might be Papa next.

“I hate it,” I say quietly.