At dawn, the girl packs some clothes into a carrier bag and creeps downstairs. In her pocket is a small plastic turtle, its shell thumbed thin and scarred.

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Yesterday, the girl’s social worker – a woman who blinks too often behind frameless glasses – announced another move. ‘A nice family,’ she said.

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She always says that.

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As the girl strikes out on her own, she remembers a fairground, the clatter of toppling tins, a joyous whoop; she remembers a bearded clown passing her a prize; and she remembers her mum’s hand clutching hers, never once letting go.