We walk for another hour, into a barren, less populated district that I don’t know all that well, except for when I’ve visited the wild camp. Eric found Papa for us a year ago, and I bought a hand-drawn map from him. When we come to the road that leads to the entrance of the camp, I lead us through an abandoned warehouse area on the left, and approach the camp that way.

A finger to my lips, I prop my rod against the building and Bit does the same. Then we creep to the corner of the building.

There’s a wide area of tall grass and then the high wire fence. A Black Mark, gun over his shoulder, patrols the inside of this fence. Within the compound there are long, low, wooden buildings. That’s where the men are housed. With a glance at Bit, I head off at a crouch, following a faint path through the long grass. Bit follows. The grass rustles on either side of us.

“What if there’s snakes?” hisses Bit.

“Shut up about snakes,” I whisper back. Every time I use this path I think about the snakes that could be running around in the grass.

Soon I risk putting my head above the grass to check our progress. There’s the corner of the camp: we’re nearly around the far side, crawling towards the perimeter fence. Some men are moving about in a large open yard.

Still I keep going, to my special spot. There’s a patch of flattened grass where I lie on my front and peer through the grass at the camp.

Bit squeezes in beside me. “What are they doing?” he whispers.

“Exercise.” Squinting, I’m not entirely sure myself. “Maybe.”

The men are walking in a large circle around the yard, watched over by a guard with a gun. They walk without speaking, eyes looking at the ground. So thin, these men, in their identical grey uniforms.

Then I spot Papa and I get a funny feeling: relief that he’s still alive, but sadness, too, because my father’s in this place. “That’s him,” I whisper to Bit. Papa’s a tall man and dark-haired like the rest, so it’s hard to tell much difference between these men from a distance except for their different shapes.

“He looks like Jorzy,” Bit whispers.

As Papa approaches the fence in the large circuit, I give a low whistle, copying the three sweet notes of a quail. His glance flicks over to the fence, and he smiles fleetingly. Once more, I risk another call. Trudging around the arc of the circle, Papa wipes a hand across his brow. It could be a wave.