Tied together they dangle from the phone line which stretches between the rows of terraced houses.

Small shoes, black shoes – scuffed toes and well worn soles.

They sway gently on the breeze, an odd hanging ornament over the quiet road, the parked cars.

Along the street the boy stands alone; crying. The socks on his feet are damp and cold and he can’t feel his toes. He sniffs, wipes the snot and blood from his nostrils and starts for home, wondering, again, why they always go for him.

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