A flock of woodpigeons swoop over the bank buildings on the high street, their pale underparts glimmering in the winter sunshine.
S-’s face widens into a huge smile. She’s always loved birds. When we first met her, at her foster parents, she used to respond to bird song by holding her hand up, pinching her index finger and thumb together in the rough shape of a beak. Now she fairly vibrates with excitement in my arms, pointing to the sky, her eyes big and round and brimming.
‘Br, br, br,’ she shrieks, right into my ear drum. ‘BR.’
