He fell over in the middle of the labyrinth. They said it didn’t matter, but he stumbled again as he got up. For the rest of the week he felt lost. It was as if he was blindfolded. He dreamt of walking round. And round. There was no way out.
There’s nothing wrong with the boy, his mother says, apart from liking attention.
So they ignore his dresses, the songs he screams, even his self-inflicted injuries. But when he replaces the faces in every photograph with his own, they worry.