The round

Every day Pipp asked her mother about the round. She wasn’t always allowed to go – far from it – but she was eight, and sharp, and knew pleading when she wasn’t bothered made it likelier she’d get to go when she was.

The round was nothing more than a circle of bricks, about a hand above the grass, but to Pipp it was a way into another world. In the round she could be anyone she imagined – until she fell out, as she always did. Then she had to wait a whole day before the round would let her in again.

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