Moth knew he was being punished. He wasn’t sure why, yet, although he was working on that, but the tone of Second Father’s voice and the belt gripped in his hand could mean only one thing.

There were few places to hide in the Home. Moth knew them all, and ran quickly in his head through the possibilities. Cupboard under the stairs—too close; Second Father would see where he’d gone, and he’d be trapped. Attic—too risky getting up the ladder, with his feet and ankles in range of those enormous grabbing hands. Back door to the garden—too far. He could outrun Second Father over short distances, but the back door was the whole length of the Home from here, and once Second Father built up momentum it was always game over.

Instead, Moth tried to negotiate. He worked his eyes into scrunched-up balls so it would look like he was crying. In a plaintive voice which did not come at all naturally to him, he asked Second Father, “What did I do?”

Second Father ignored him. He raised the belt, his other arm outstretched—that was his preferred method, to get a grip on a limb or shoulder so that you couldn’t wriggle away from the swing of the belt—but as he advanced towards Moth, the interbell by the front door rang.

Growling, Second Father turned his head. The split-second advantage was all Moth needed. He flung himself into a sprint and raced for the back door, his mind already flying ahead: the gap beneath the shed, which was too small for Second Father to squeeze into; the tangled thicket by the wall, where he could lose himself at the expense of a few scratches; or the maze of broken-down vehicles and farm machinery which littered the end of the yard? Some of the machinery was hazardous, or so the welfare inspectors had claimed, which was why the Fathers had thrown tarps over them after the last inspection visit. But Moth would rather take his chances with hazardous machinery any day than with Second Father’s belt. Besides, the tarps provided excellent hiding places, as long as you kept still.

He had almost reached the back door when a bang like nothing he’d ever heard before ricocheted through the house. Moth skidded, grabbing the doorframe, and twisted around. Second Father lay flat like a felled tree on the floor of the hall. Beyond him, framed in the doorway, was a man with black cloth wrapped around his face. He held a gun, which was still cocked towards where Second Father’s head had been a moment before.

“Hey,” the man yelled, “there’s a kid here!”

Moth scrambled to move his feet. He pushed away from the doorframe, stumbled, righted himself, and hurtled towards the utility room. He could hear the harsh slaps of the man’s feet on the hallway floor behind him. The Home was big, but so was the man, and if Moth hadn’t already been halfway to the back door he would have caught him by now.

The back door was locked. Moth shrieked aloud as he yanked uselessly against the handle. It was never locked. Why was it locked? With a cold weight in his stomach, he realised that Second Father must have locked it in advance; he must have foreseen that Moth might try to run that way.

The spare key was on its hook to one side of the door. Moth snatched it and rammed it into the lock, his own shriek still ringing in his ears. Time was moving so slowly. He managed to turn the key, yanked the door open and darted through with panic in his heels.

The man in the black mask had almost reached the utility room. He let out a roar as he saw Moth disappearing through the back door.

Moth sprinted for the thicket. He tore between empty paint cans and other rubbish that the Fathers had left lying around. Long grass caught at his ankles. He reached the thicket and hurled himself into the dense bushes, twigs tearing his skin, his eyes squeezed tight shut. Like a blind animal he wriggled into the heart of the undergrowth. He buried himself beneath a tangle of branches and lay flat, trembling, his breath hammering.

Through a mesh of twigs, Moth saw the man emerge from the house, followed by another two men. They spread out. They were searching for him. They had killed Second Father, and they were searching for him. What did they want? Were they thieves, murderers? A new type of welfare inspector? Moth knew so little of the world outside the Home. His skull felt empty, the handful of memories within drifting around and bouncing uselessly off the sides.

It wasn’t long before they spotted him. His bright orange overalls were screaming out through the undergrowth. They hauled him clear of the bushes, swearing as he scratched and bit at their hands. One of the men pinned his arms.

“He’s a synthie.”

“What?”

“Look at his neck.”

“Just our luck.” The man holding Moth blew out his breath. “Okay, switch him off. We’ll unload him on the way back.”

Everything went dark.

*     *     *
Moth was in a bare, sour-smelling room lit by a single strip light. The ceiling was low and damp-stricken. He leapt up and ran to the door, seizing the handle, but it was locked.

Instinct told him he was being punished. This was a punishment room. Moth began to hammer wildly on the door with his fists. He screamed, “What did I do? What did I do?”

“Shut up,” said a voice from behind him. “They’ll be back for us soon.”

Moth put down his fists. He turned. There were two small beds in the room, child-sized. He had been lying on one of them. On the other sat a girl of about his age, wearing yellow overalls which were so streaked with dirt and dust they might have been grey.

“Who will?” he asked.

“Dunno,” said the girl. “Smugglers. Traffickers. They bring kids in and out all the time. Selling us on, like.”

Moth considered this. He couldn’t remember how he had got here. “What for?”

“Money,” said the girl. “Duh.”

“No, I mean why? Who are they selling us to?”

“Damn, they wiped you good, huh?” The girl smirked at him. “Me, I was living rough. Got picked up by a gang of them a couple days ago. You don’t remember where they found you?”

Moth shook his head.

“You must’ve seen something they didn’t want you to see,” said the girl wisely. “Best not to worry about it.”

“But what’re they going to do with us?”

“It won’t be too bad. Probably some childless couple in the suburbs. Infertiles. Or a nice old lady who’s run out of cats, if you’re lucky. At least we won’t have to go back into foster.”

Moth could make very little sense of this.

“Hey, better lie down,” said the girl, doing so herself. “I can hear the van. Just do what they tell you, okay?”

This made Moth very uneasy, although he wasn’t sure why. Something in his system was telling him not to trust, not to submit; to run and hide, if he could. But there was nowhere to run.

The door opened. Two adults walked in. Their faces were swathed in black and they wore hoods over their hair. Moth couldn’t even tell if they were men or women.

They approached the girl on the other bed and spoke quietly to her. Moth couldn’t make out what they were saying; there was a pounding noise in his ears. He saw the girl nod, and then one of the adults reached down and clicked something on the side of the girl’s neck. The girl went limp.

Without thinking, Moth launched himself up and sprinted for the door. He didn’t know much, but he knew he could run. He knew he was faster than most adults, over short distances at least.

In the doorway, he collided with a third adult. This one was also masked, also hooded. The adult grabbed Moth by the arms and marched him backwards, all the way back to the bed. Moth struggled and screamed but the adults were too strong. They held him down on the bed and one of them did something to his neck, something which clicked and stung and—

*     *     *
Moth blinked as he was led into the room. There was a smell of potpourri which overwhelmed him so badly he couldn’t think straight. How had he got here? Where was this? He peered through the pink-wallpapered gloom. There were ornaments, white doilies, a clutter of chairs and tiny tables overflowing with trinkets.

“Oh, here he is,” said a cracked, elderly voice. A woman tottered towards him. She enveloped his hands in her own and the papery warmth of her skin pressed into his palms. “Sit down, dear, there you are. You must be exhausted.”

Moth didn’t feel exhausted. He sat, though, his legs tense, wary of this old woman and her scented house.

Someone was stood in the doorway. A man, with a broad, blunt-nosed face. He didn’t look at Moth. He seemed to be waiting for something.

The old woman waved a hand at him. “That’s all right, dear, you can go now. We’ve got everything we need.”

“Just so we’re clear,” the man said, “no involving the authorities, right? If you’re not happy with him, we’ll take him back. You wouldn’t want him ending up back in foster, would you?”

“Oh dear me no,” said the old woman mildly, “I wouldn’t do that to him. Poor little mite. You’re hungry, aren’t you, dear?”

This last comment seemed to be addressed to Moth, so he nodded.

“He was malfunctioning earlier,” the man went on, “so careful with the switch. And if he runs off, call us. Okay? No police.”

The old woman waved her hand again. “Yes, yes, your colleague explained all of this already.”

“Fine,” said the man. “Be good, kid.”

He gave Moth a brief, tight-lipped nod and left.

“Now then, dear,” said the old woman. She hobbled towards Moth and bent down stiffly, wrinkling her thin lips into a smile. “Jam sandwiches? Milk and biscuits? You can have anything you like, my dear. You’re safe now.”

Moth requested jam sandwiches. While the old lady made her slow way into the kitchen, he got up and paced swiftly round the room, examining the catches on the windows, the sliding door to the conservatory, which looked out onto a small, low-fenced garden, and the hallway, from which a flight of narrow stairs led up to the next floor. The front door key fitted snugly in the lock.

He sat down again on the crochet-covered sofa. The old woman brought out a tray on which rattled a teapot, two cups, saucers and a small plate of sandwiches. She sat next to Moth. She smelled unusual to him, very clean but very old, and her hair was so thin it didn’t fully cover her scalp.

She poured the tea. Moth picked up a sandwich and ate it in two bites.

“No, dear,” she said with a creaking laugh. “Use the plate. Like this.”

She passed him the plate of sandwiches. Moth ate another. The old lady didn’t seem to want any, so he kept eating, one sandwich after another, until all six were gone.

“My,” said the old lady, “what an appetite! Have some tea, dear.”

She poured the tea into the cup, which was on the saucer, which was on a small square doily, which was on a coaster. Moth didn’t know whether to pick up just the cup, or the saucer and the cup, or the whole thing right down to the coaster. Be good, kid, the man had said. What did that mean? What would happen to him if he wasn’t good?

“I don’t like tea,” he said decisively. “Just water.”

The old lady patted his hand. She heaved herself up and tottered to the kitchen once more. While she was gone, Moth investigated the underside of the teacup, trying to see whether it was attached to the saucer, and whether the doily was attached to the coaster underneath. As he tipped the cup, some of the tea slopped out and spilled onto his hand. It was very hot. Snatching his hand away, he somehow knocked the cup off the table. It fell and shattered on the dark wooden floor, tea exploding out of it to spatter up the side of the sofa.

Moth sat frozen. The old lady came hurrying back, although even when hurrying she moved slowly, so slowly, much slower than Moth. It would be easy to outrun her, if he had to.

She looked at the smashed cup on the floor and then at Moth.

“I didn’t do it,” he blurted.

“These things happen,” the old lady said. She had a damp cloth in her hand and she began to dab at the sofa. “Not to worry, dear.”

But Moth was worried. He was terrified. He didn’t know what kind of punishment room this old lady had, whether it was scented with potpourri or papered with white doilies, but he knew it would be here somewhere and he knew he wouldn’t like it.

As the old lady laboriously bent and began to gather up the shards of porcelain from the floor, Moth leapt past her and ran for the hallway. He twisted the key in the lock.

The front door opened onto a narrow, cobbled street which was completely unfamiliar to him. He picked a direction and ran, throwing himself around corners and up alleyways until he was good and lost. It must have been getting late, as the sky was paling to purplish-grey above him, but the air was still warm.

Eventually Moth slowed down. He could hear voices up ahead. He glanced down at his orange overalls, wishing they were less conspicuous.

The alley opened out onto a canal bank. Two kids were sat on a bench, passing a can between them and talking loudly. They weren’t dressed like him: they wore stiff-looking blue trousers and t-shirts with pictures on the front. Moth hesitated. If he took off down the canal path, he could probably find somewhere to hide for the night, maybe even get out of this town altogether. But first he’d have to go past the kids.

He walked slowly towards the canal. He was trying to look small, uninteresting, but he felt the kids’ attention snap onto him the minute they saw him. They stopped talking.

“Who’s this, then?” one of them said as Moth drew level with them. “Just escaped from prison or what?”

“He’s a synthie,” said the other one. “I can see the thing on his neck.”

Moth looked up. They were swinging their legs, grinning at him, one of them dangling the empty can from a hooked finger.

He kept walking. For a second he thought they would let him go. Then he heard the whoosh of air and the empty can hit him in the back of the head.

“Oy, synthie boy,” one of the kids said. “Where you going?”

Moth started to run. He heard the scrape and scrabble of the two kids launching themselves off the bench. They followed him, laughing and whooping. He fled down the canal path towards a patch of woodland. The outlines of the trees were dark and tall against the fading sky. Moth’s legs felt heavy, as though they were running out of battery. He locked his teeth together and struggled on.

The kids caught him just before he reached the woods. One of them grabbed the back of his overalls. He managed to wriggle free, but the other kid barrelled into him from the side, knocking him to the ground. It was dark in under the trees. Moth rolled and spat. He tried to bite the kid who was forcing his head back, tried to shake loose the kid who was pinning down his chest. They just laughed at him. Their eyes were wild with the fight.

“Switch him off!” the kid leaning on his chest said excitedly.

“No, wait,” said the other one. “Maybe we can reprogram him. Make him do tricks.”

Moth snarled. One of the kids sank a fist into his stomach.

The kid who had hold of Moth’s head was fiddling with something on the side of his neck. Moth felt a weird clicking sensation, then a stinging pain.

“Not that one,” said the other kid impatiently. “You have to press the—”

The sky went briefly black. Moth’s eyeballs rotated, giving him a sickening sense of vertigo, and he saw for an instant Second Father’s hand raised, the belt buckle glinting in the air. He saw the tarpaulin-covered machines hunkered like monsters in the backyard. His neck stung and spasmed, and he heard the slap of feet running towards him up the hall, felt the panicked twisting of a key in a lock. He could smell potpourri.

“Careful, he’s about to be sick.”

Moth gave a sudden roar. He flung up his arms, knocking aside the kid who was fiddling with his neck. The other kid tried to hit him again, but Moth jack-knifed his torso to the side and the kid lost his balance. Twisting and thrashing and hissing, Moth tore at the hands which raked his overalls and gripped into his skin. But there were lights, suddenly, torch beams snaking between the trees, and more hands, adult hands, adult men. The canal path was full of shouts and cries and the blaring of whistles.

The ground leapt up towards Moth’s face and his mouth filled with dry pine needles. Someone was holding his wrists behind his back. There was a weight like a boulder pressing into his lower ribs. He choked and spat, trying to clear his mouth.

“That one the synth?” said a male voice somewhere above him.

A hand groped round Moth’s throat, feeling for the switch on the left side of his neck.

“Please don’t,” Moth cried, and suddenly he felt weak and helpless, a lost little child. “I don’t want to forget. I don’t want to forget it all again. Please.”

His chest shuddered with sobs. The pressure on his ribs lifted slightly and his wrists were released. The man rolled him over, flashing a torch into his eyes.

“Get those other kids out of here,” Moth heard him saying. “Tell their parents we’re letting them off with a caution this time.”

“What about that one?” said a different voice. “The synthie?”

The man kneeling over Moth peered down at him. Moth peered back. He saw a heavily-built man, dark-eyed, wearing some kind of uniform.

“Too much paperwork,” said the man. “Let’s just leave him. He’ll find his way home.”

The man got up.

Moth lay where he was, his limbs empty of feeling, gentle sobs still lifting his ribs as the men walked away. It had started to rain, a warm, soft rain which dripped through the tree branches and licked the mud from his face. The men had left him. He tried to call after them, his voice thin and lost among the trees, “What did I do? What did I do?” But they were already too far away.

He was still lying there over an hour later. A wavering beam of torchlight found him. It was followed slowly, slowly, by the wavering footsteps of the old lady, the one who had fed him jam sandwiches. She inched towards him and crouched with difficulty at his side. One papery hand wiped the rain from his brow.

“There, now, there you are. What a walk I’ve had to find you! You ran a long way. I bet you can run very fast, can’t you, dear?”

“I remember now,” whispered Moth. “Second Father. The place with the low ceiling.”

“That doesn’t matter anymore, dear,” said the old lady. “You can stay with me, now, if you like. I’ll look after you. Would you like that?”

Moth moved his lips. A thousand questions swarmed his tired mind.

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do,” the old lady said. “And it’s okay to be frightened. You’re not the first little synthetic I’ve rescued.”

Her eyes twinkled like stars in the torchlight.

“Yes,” said Moth, and, dredging some far-away memory out of somewhere, added uncertainly, “Please.”

The old lady smiled. She waited while Moth got carefully to his feet. Then, with arms linked, although which of them was supporting the other was far from clear, they made their way home.