‘Anyone for a piece of shortbread? It’ll go nicely with your tea.’
The old woman opens a tin. The aroma of buttery biscuits fills the compartment. She has never had shortbread, but it smells good. She throws a glance at Herman. Is she allowed?
‘Go on,’ the woman urges.
Herman nods. He takes a piece.
‘Delicious. Reminds me of being wee,’ he says. ‘Of staying at my gran’s.’
Something funny’s happening to his accent. He sounds Scottish? He’s definitely the most relaxed since they’ve gone on the run.
‘Try some, petal. Tastes like home.’
Home? She doesn’t have a home.