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You’re seven when you meet him, and he’s six.
He insists that he’s six and a half, thank you, as he pulls himself to sit on the wall beside you. He’s small, smaller than you and Stuart and definitely smaller than Peter. His socks are still clean and white, the cuffs of his jumper crisp and new, and he kicks his feet.
He says he’s called David, and he smiles at you in that little way of his.
You tell him you’re Don, and sitting next to him, with your skinned knees and scuffed shoes, you smile and he laughs with you.
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