Flotsam, left behind as the city receded. Far from the centre, broken buildings stood, half-built or unbuilt, development abandoned as the tide had turned. Smashed bricks and glass, broken cables sprouting from mortar-flecked earth. Green thrusting up through fractured tarmac.

In the afternoon heat, two children scrambled over ruins – the older with purpose, pausing occasionally to pick at the rubble. The younger following, stopping as something caught his eye. He squatted to dig it out. The older boy turned.

‘What you got?’

‘Nothin.’ He pulled it out of the soil. ‘Bottle.’

‘Give it ere.’ He snatched it, threw it. It burst against a wall. ‘Not that. Metal we need. Come on.’

He grabbed the younger boy’s arm as he began to cry, pulling him forward. ‘Stupid!’

‘Not stupid!’ Wiping his nose on the back of his hand, the younger pulled away. ‘Geddoff! Where we going?’

‘There.’ He pointed ahead. At the edge of the place, a lone house stood. Complete, a survivor. The younger drew back, whimpered.

‘Not there.’