7. The first Shift

The air was heavy with anticipation as night descended upon the train station, casting an eerie glow upon the bustling surroundings. My first night as a volunteer in the kids’ corner awaited, and while a feeling of unease chipped away at my determination..

Amidst the hubbub of activity, I sought out the woman in charge – the one who had reached out to me, the one who had shared the unsettling truth about the potential dangers that lurked in the shadows. Our eyes met, and it felt as though she could peer into the depths of my soul. A minute passed, and then she nodded, making a decision based on some unspoken understanding. She allowed me to enter the kids’ corner.

I listened intently as she explained the rules – the ways to keep the children safe, the boundaries that must be upheld, the vigilance required to prevent potential predators from exploiting the vulnerability of those under our care. The magnitude of it all hit me like a wave – the concept of never leaving the children alone, not even for a second, felt like a daunting but necessary commitment. And then, there was one other strict directive – to never allow strangers into the room.

As I absorbed her instructions, my heart raced, and a deep sense of unease settled within me. She told me about people willing to impersonate parents, to actually steal kids or lure them away.

As the night wore on, I watched over the kids with unwavering attention. The stories of strangers posing as parents played on a loop in my mind. Every person who approached the glass walls was met with caution, every request to enter the room scrutinised with a mixture of suspicion and wariness.

In those moments, the station wasn’t a haven; it was an island surrounded by sharks – reminder of dangers lurking just beyond the edges of our refuge.

As dawn broke, a mixture of relief and exhaustion washed over me. The night had been a tense dance between protection and vigilance, a delicate balance that had tested my resolve. I looked at the children one last time before heading home. Some of them cried, some slept, and a few were playing and reading.

At the last minute Vera, a sweet girl around twelve years old, ran to me and hugged me tightly. She whispered, “I will miss you.” My heart broke, as I heard her words. I barely helped her, we were simply talking and drawing together for a few hours, and that was enough to make her miss me.

I spent the next day thinking about Vera, and what she must have gone through. It seemed that a few hours of normality, was something she needed the most at the moment, and this thought terrified me.