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women?”
    Finding the scene outside too upsetting, Chris looked at his son and brushed his fine hair from his wide eyes. “I don’t think so; I think they’ve stolen them and taken them as slaves. It would appear that they’re looting for women and girls as well as food.”
    Although Michael only said, “Oh,” his little face looked like he was trying to comprehend the fact. “Why would they steal women?”
    “Because they’re bad men.”
    Sounding hopeful, Michael said, “Do you think Mum and Matilda are in there? Maybe we could steal them back?”
    Another truth that Chris had chosen to withhold from his son was the whereabouts of his mother and sister, but now wasn’t the time to reveal it. Looking out of the window again, pretending to scan the dirty and broken faces in the cage on the back of the third truck, Chris said, “I can’t see them.”
    “Hmmm,” Michael said thoughtfully, and then added, “Do you think they’ll leave my chocolate? I’ve been careful to make that lasts as long as possible. I’ve sucked just one square every night.”
    Blinking the tears from his eyes, Chris pulled his son’s ration-emaciated body tightly to him. Like everything else in the house, Michael smelt of mould. Chris shivered as he said, “Maybe.” Clearing his throat quietly, he repeated, “Maybe. What we need to accept is that they will take whatever they want, and there are too many of them for us to argue.”
    Michael said another, “Hmmm.”
    Chris scanned the room again. With no television, no electricity, no gas and no physical energy because of their poor diet, the life they’d chosen beneath the bedclothes had seemed to be the most sensible option at the time. Chris didn’t see what moving would achieve, especially as the open road stank of human waste because of overflowing sewers. The life he’d chosen for them had seemed sustainable. Or rather, it had until now.
    Looking again at the truck with the women, Michael said, “What do you think they do with the little boys? Will they take Tommy prisoner? Will they take me prisoner?”
    Looking at the leader and his blood-encrusted suit, Chris swallowed back the bilious burn rising in his throat and tried to speak, but his face buckled out of control.
    Michael, who was staring at what was happening outside with his jaw hanging limp, didn’t notice.
    Drawing a thick and stuttered breath, Chris said. “I don’t think they will. I don’t think they make little boys prisoners.”
    “Thank God,” Michael said with relief.
    Looking away again, Chris blinked as a solitary tear ran down his cheek. He felt like a fool for not seeing this coming from a mile off because the signs had been there months before. He thought about the conversation he’d had with his boss just over a year ago.

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