I climb into the passenger seat and awkwardly draw up my knees. There are so many computer programming books there’s barely any room for my feet. He gets in beside me and flings some of them into the back, which is already piled high with boxes and bin bags. We sit without speaking, our breath fogging the windscreen. Eventually he turns and looks at me like he’s expecting an explanation. When I don’t say anything, he fastens his seatbelt and sighs.

‘So we could sit here in awkward silence, or – and it’s a crazy idea, I know – you could let me take you home.’

I shift in the seat, my clothes squelching beneath me. The sensible thing would be to go home so I can change and pack a bag, but my foster parents will be there. I don’t like lying to them – they’re both great guys and it’s been ages since I’ve lived anywhere for more than a year – but they don’t know I’ve been searching for my mum and I can’t risk them trying to stop me.

Tom rubs his hands together. ‘Awkward silence it is then.’

‘Can you take me to the train station, please?’

He looks confused but nods. ‘Of course.’

‘Thanks.’

Accepting a favour from him makes me feel uncomfortable, but I don’t have a choice. I fasten my seatbelt, feeling a little better as a plan forms in my head. From what I remember, I need to get two trains and then a boat to Bardsey Island. I’ll text my foster parents before I’m due home from work, so they don’t worry. I’ve no idea what I’m going to say, but I’ll think of something. Sadness tugs at my heart as Tom drives out of the car park, but I keep my eyes fixed ahead. Better to never look back.

Once we get onto the main road, I look up train times on my phone. The next one goes in thirty minutes. We should make it, as long as there are no holdups. I relax back in my seat – until I see the ticket price. It’s twice as much as I was expecting. How can …? And then I realise. I was looking at advance tickets before, not ones on the same day. I have enough in my account to cover the fare, and hopefully the bus ride, but that’s it. There’s a few quid in my wallet, but knowing National Rip-off Rail prices I’ll end up with a packet of stale custard creams for lunch.

As I might have guessed, the roads are a nightmare: queues of traffic at temporary stop signs, stubborn cyclists pedalling up the hill in packs of three, and a learner driver in a Nissan Micra determined to crawl along at twenty miles an hour in a forty zone.

When we eventually pull into the station, I open the door before the car’s even stopped.

‘Cheers for the lift.’

‘No worries.’

I get out and charge up the dozen steps to the ticket office.