She turned, hard, and got one hand on Nyra's shoulder.
"Run," she said. "Nyra. Go, now, run—"
Nyra did not run.
She stood with her back against the couch and shook, and the tears came, and she did not move an inch toward the door her grandmother was pointing at. She did not understand half of what was happening. She understood that strangers were in the house and that they had their hands on Nana.
"Look at it," the youngest said. He almost laughed. He crouched a little, the way grown men did when they talked down to children, and reached toward her. "It's just a—"
"Don't touch Nana," Nyra said.
Her voice was small. It was a child's voice, wet with crying, and it did not stop anyone.
The leader hauled Mrs Ganner up by the arm and pulled her toward the door, and her foot caught the broken chair and she cried out as she went down to one knee.
The man's hand kept reaching for Nyra.
The crying stopped.
The air in the flat changed.
