No Safe Place by Deborah Ellis Page A

Cheslav pushed a blanket-wrapped bundle ahead of him out of the entrance to the stairs.
    â€œI cleaned out the cupboards,” he said. “I’m going to sell all this in England.” He took a screwdriver from the boat’s tool kit and began to remove a brass bell that was screwed to the boat.
    â€œHow are you going to move around with all that?” Abdul asked. “Won’t it slow you down?”
    â€œI am not worried about that.” The bell clanged as he put it into the bundle, tied the ends of the blanket together and straightened up.
    The smile on his face changed to a look of alarm.
    â€œLights!” he shouted. “Coming this way! We are being chased!”
    He ran to the wheelhouse and shoved Rosalia away from the wheel. Abdul fell to the deck as the boat jolted forward at full speed.
    â€œI’m not getting caught!” Cheslav yelled. He aimed the boat toward a bank of thick fog. “I’m not going back! I’m not going back!”

TWELVE
    â€œI don’t know what I’m going to do with him.”
    The housemother looked down at Cheslav, standing between two policemen.
    â€œIt’s the third time he’s run away, and he’s only been with us for two years.”
    Cheslav stood on the front step of the Baby House, wet from the rain he’d been running in. He was too tired now to try to escape the grip of the officer’s hands on his arms.
    â€œHe’s not too big to tie to the bed,” one of the officers said.
    â€œI don’t like to do that with the older ones,” the housemother said. “At least he’s nearly seven. Soon he’ll be someone else’s problem.”
    The police officers handed Cheslav over to the housemother and left. Cheslav was marched up the stairs and down the hallway to the room where the older boys slept.
    â€œNo more outings for you,” the housemother said. “Get your pajamas on.”
    Cheslav’s fingers were numb with cold. He had trouble undoing the buttons. The housemother, impatient, yanked his shirt over his head.
    â€œYou won’t find your mother by running around Cheremkhova. Now I have to wash these clothes. You are nothing but work.”
    She left the dormitory. Cheslav heard the click of the door locking behind her.
    He stood in the middle of the room and shivered. The dorm was cold and he was chilled from the rain. Whispers of children rose up around him.
    â€œChicken got caught! Chicken got caught!”
    That’s what they called Cheslav. Chicken. Because he was scrawny and bony and spent playtime running along the Baby House fence looking for a way out, just like the chickens the housemother kept.
    â€œChicken got caught!”
    Someone threw a pillow at him. He picked it up and went to his mat — one of twenty that took up most of the floor space.
    There was no blanket on his mattress. Another child had taken it. Cheslav curled up around the pillow to try to get warm.
    â€œThat’s mine,” said the boy who had thrown the pillow.
    Cheslav clutched the other boy’s pillow closer to his chest. He wrapped his arms around it and held tight.
    â€œGive it back.”
    The other child started to tug. Cheslav heard the sound of feet running across the floor as boys left their mats to crowd around and watch. Several joined in trying to get the pillow back.
    Cheslav was kicked and hit but he held fast to the pillow. His eyes were shut. He entwined his fingers together even as the boys tried to pry them apart. For long minutes, he took their abuse.
    Then, in a flash, he was on his feet and swinging. The other boy’s pillow flew out of his hands. But it was no longer about that. It was about hitting what he could hit. It was about getting relief from the rage that had built up inside him.
    â€œWhat’s going on in here?”
    The dormitory door flung open. A shaft of light flooded in from the