Miss Coral gets up from her desk on a cool October afternoon. She walks over to the kettle and drains steaming liquid into a clear plastic flask, the tea leaves swirling within. Moon is crouched in the corner of the office, a small book of poems on her knees. ‘Dead Water’ by Wen Yiduo. She learns the lines, breathing out the words.

‘Time to go,’ says Miss Coral. ‘The Director can’t catch you here again.’ Her tiny frame and button bright face do not convey the threat she intends. Moon looks up. Her eyes, a little too far apart and as flat and smooth as her forehead, sit open and blank. She gets to her feet. She can’t have grown an inch since she got