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in with us. How did he feel about it? Was it a relief to be away from his apparently hated stepmother? Was he anxious? Was he bewildered? Was he scared?
    Probably all of the above, I thought, even if the expression on his face was a visual depiction of ‘Yeah, whatever’.
    ‘Hi, Tyler!’ I said brightly, extending an arm so I could usher him in. ‘Nice to see you again. D’you want to choose a seat at the table? And help yourself to juice and biscuits, of course. I didn’t know which ones you liked so I put out the ones
I
like. That way,’ I quipped, ‘if you don’t like them, there’ll be all the more for me.’
    He plonked himself down and looked at me as if I was mad.
    ‘There you go, lad,’ Mike said, having pulled out the seat Tyler had just sat on. He then sat down beside him. ‘Casey’ll be lucky. Jammie Dodgers and Jaffa Cakes are my favourites too –’ he took one to illustrate – ‘Go on, help yourself,’ he urged, ‘or I’ll scoff down the lot.’
    Tyler took the glass of juice John had by now poured for him, but refused Mike’s offer with a head shake. ‘I only like chocolate-chip ones,’ he said pointedly.
    I leapt up again, having only just parked my backside. This was fine. If he was testing our mettle then so be it. If not, then so be it, too. ‘Well,’ I said, ‘it just so happens that I have some of those as well. They’re our son Kieron’s favourite. Shall I go and get some?’
    Tyler shook his head. ‘Nah,’ he said. ‘I’m not hungry.’
    Okay, I thought. If that’s how he wants to play it, that’s fine. ‘Okay,’ I said, ‘not to worry. It’ll be teatime soon anyway. Perhaps you’ll have worked up an appetite by then.’
    Or, indeed, a sentence, because as the meeting got under way I had the same sense as I had had in the police station that Tyler was happy zoning out and letting people talk about him, rather than to him. It was perhaps a typical response for a boy of his age, particularly when in the company of strangers, but I wondered if it was also something he was used to doing at home anyway. Though he was listening intently (that was obvious) he showed no inclination to have an input – and even when invited to contribute directly, it was like pulling teeth. So we went through all the usual details, the care plan and the various items of paperwork (we had to be given ‘parental’ responsibility for things like GP and dental appointments) while Tyler just sat there, jacket on, hood down only grudgingly (following John’s directive about hoods at the table), present yet absent, being talked over. So I was glad when John – presumably thinking the same thought that I was – asked Mike if he’d mind giving Tyler the usual tour.
    ‘Would you mind showing him his new room and so on, Mike,’ he asked him, ‘while Casey and I go through the last of the signatures? Then we’ll get Tyler’s stuff out of the car so we can get him installed properly.’
    Mike looked relieved to be doing something. He sprang into action, rising from his seat and giving Tyler a gentle nudge. ‘Come on then, mate,’ he said. ‘Let’s go and take a look at where you’ll be laying your head down for a bit, shall we?’
    To which Tyler responded by flicking his hood back up, getting up, shoving his hands into his tracksuit bottom pockets and following Mike, without a word, out of the room.
    ‘And if I know Casey,’ I heard Mike say as they headed up the stairs, ‘you might have to move some clutter to make some room for all your bits and bobs.’
    I didn’t hear Tyler’s reply.
    ‘Well,’ said John, taking off his reading glasses and running a hand though his hair, ‘as meetings go, that one felt a little pointless, didn’t it? Though if it’s any consolation, he’s been giving the respite carers a pretty tough time of it, so it’s nothing personal.’ He grinned. ‘In fact, the last thing they said to me was that if they hadn’t already planned their holiday,