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homesickness returned. His breath became jerky as tears spilled down his cheeks.
    His father wouldn’t stand by and watch him get abused like this; he’d teach these kids a lesson... Or would he?
    He often wondered why his dad always put down his oldest son and yet pounced on anyone who did the same. “I’m your father. I know how not to hurt your feelings,” he’d proclaim.
    If Danny ever tried to explain that comments like, “You mean after all I’ve told you, you still don’t get it? Gees, you’re stupid!” did hurt his feelings, he’d be quickly rebuked.
    “Oh, come on Danny, a little criticism now and then never hurt anybody.”
    Yes, but how often was now and then? Once a week? Twice a week? Every day? Every–
    His thoughts were interrupted by the rapid approach of a whizzing sound. He instinctively sat up, just in time to catch a water-bomb on the forehead. The balloon burst and sent water gushing over his face, shirt, pillow and bed sheets. There was a sea of laughter around him.
    “SCORES!” shouted Mark, raising a hand in triumph. The others continued laughing.
    Through a blur of tears, Danny looked around the hostile panel before him and saw neither compassion nor means of escape. He dug his face into the soaked pillow to muffle his crying and their laughter.
    Robbo moved in to stroke Danny’s knotty hair. “Ohhh, the poor little cry baby. Where’s mummy now?” More laughter.
    Robbo continued, “Don’t cry. We didn’t mean it.” The chorus of laughter grew louder.
    Then the dormitory door flew open and the room fell silent.
    Danny craned his neck around to see a gaunt figure standing in the doorway, eyes ablaze on those present: Unit Master, Mr Neilson. Behind him, Ben and Alex made faces in an effort to make the others laugh, but weren’t successful.
    “WHAT IS GOING ON?” Mr Neilson demanded.
    No one dared answer. All avoided his intense stare.
    “I WANT SOME ANSWERS!” He shouted as he slammed down his foot with a crash that echoed around the wooden room.
    Still no one spoke. Kids hung their heads low and shuffled their feet. Even Ben and Alex gave up their attempts to amuse the others.
    Like a searchlight, Mr Neilson’s gaze circled the room, scrutinising each face except Danny’s, daring someone to meet his eyes.
    Clint, thinking the searchlight had passed him, looked up at the wrong time.
    “Clinton Byrce.” Mr Neilson smiled.
    Clint gulped.
    “Tell me what has been going on here.”
    “I-It was just an accident.” Clint looked down at his feet and stuck his hands in his pockets. “We were, y’know, just throwing it around when–”
    “What were you throwing around?” Mr Neilson interrupted.
    Clint gulped again and glanced around the others. The silence amongst them was as complete as before. He momentarily met Mr Neilson’s gaze, said “A water balloon, sir,” and looked away.
    “And just why were you throwing around a water balloon?”
    Clint hesitated, before answering, “I don’t know.”
    “And you were just throwing this water balloon around when it accidentally hit Danny on the head... Is this what you’re trying to say, Clinton?”
    “Yes sir,” he mumbled.
    Mr Neilson’s searing eyes fell upon Danny as he said sternly, “Is this true, Danny?”
    Against his intuition, Danny searched those fierce green eyes for sympathy, but there was none. He tried to pivot his head away, but like a rabbit caught in headlights, his muscles were frozen with fear. He was transfixed and compelled to answer.
    His mouth opened, but the word was stuck. Other words formed in his mind, sinister, flashing across his consciousness too quick and too many to grasp. Meanwhile the gallery waited... For him to pronounce his own sentence, to say the word “Yes” and die, or the word “No” and die. More time passed and still they waited, poised to attack on the whim of his word.
    Then a new idea surfaced:
    Running.
    Before the others could react, Danny jumped through the open