You realise that Michael's not an ordinary ten-year-old almost immediately: his narration is off, and he's in a wheelchair in a mental hospital. But this slippery, twisting, off-balance white-water-raft of a read doesn't end there - it doesn't end anywhere you'd expect. It's not an easy read, but as the chaos of Michael's memories start to form a coherent picture, hope and healing come into play as well as the horrors of past and present.
There’s urgency in the man’s voice which I don’t understand. That’s because everything at Meadowfield is done at a leisurely pace, but this, this is urgent business. It doesn’t feel right. Before I know it, it’s too late. We’re in the bathroom and the door is locked behind me. Normally the fat man would just wheel me to the bathroom and someone else would take over, but not today. He’s inside. All I can hear is the dripping of a tap, the fat man puffing and my heart beating against my rib cage.