The furthest I had ever been from home was Disneyland, Paris, France. Second to that was the Brecon Beacons in Wales. Besides that my life had been a series of weekend trips and summer stays at a caravan park a few hours drive from home. Sat cold and wishing to be home in my nice warm bed, I tried to picture this whole experience in a more positive light. Hadn't the kids that were evacuated during the first Pied Piper operation back in World War 2 experienced an adventure too? I didn't know where the final location was set to be, but more than likely it was going to be somewhere to stay for a few weeks, or months, somewhere safe and comfortable.

Maybe an old couple would host a few of us teenagers, happy to have company after their own kids had flown the coop and moved away. Or, better yet, maybe we would be sent to a kind of camp, given activities to do between a routine of sleeping and eating together in a cafeteria, and sharing stories and playing games in our bunk beds.

Maybe where I would end up would be a place by the sea. The news didn't give away much about where all the teenagers were being evacuated to. They did however give slip the detail that the places would be somewhere remote. This made sense because, realistically, there would be little point taking teenagers from a congested city only to put them someplace equally low on room. If we were going to be put someplace remote, that also meant we would be closer to nature. Possibly a little village, or a sea-side town. The more I set my mind on being someplace closer to nature, a place of old trees and foaming rivers and huge lakes…the less grim being stuck in the back of the cold and pee-smelling van seemed.

I'd lost track of time after falling in and out of sleep a few times. My neck ached and my butt felt numb. With a sudden jolt the van came to a stop. The sound of commotion, as if the van had parked us within a bustling festival, came on all of a sudden like the way thunder follows lightning. The doors to the back of the van opened and harsh white daylight poured in, bringing with it clean, brisk, and (much to my relief) fresh air.

"Everyone out, quick, quick, we're running late," said the female officer who had been the one to take me from my home.

The other teenagers took off their seat belts and shimmied and crouched their way out of the van. I was the last to get out. I kept an eye out for the spot where someone must have wetted themselves, but didn't see a puddle or anything like that on the seats or floor.

My trainers stepped down on gravel. My legs were shaky but firm, thankful to be put to use after so long in the same stiff sitting position. I leaned back, satisfyingly popping my spine a few times. My eyes adjusted to the daylight.

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We were away from London, that much I could tell at a glance. The open air had a remote quality to it; as if we were not too far from a motorway. Hundreds of teenagers were in the midst of being filed off in different directions by Pied Piper officers. We were at some kind of depo; there were coaches, dozens of them, some leaving, some entering, others parked off to the side. Ahead to my right teenagers were being filed into a large blue coach. Seeing this made my heart swell a little bit with excitement. Coaches were a much nicer mode of transport than black vans. Far less ominous too. On the coach I could try for a good few hours of sleep. There would be a toilet on board too. I nodded to myself. Yeah, maybe this isn't going to be so bad after all.

"Everyone listen up," said the female officer, "You all have your identification with you. You'll each need to go to the check-in station over there–"

She gestured to a large pavilion where teenagers were walking in one big line as if playing a human game of snake.

"-once you've checked-in you'll be told where to go next."

I wondered if any of the teenagers might offer some kind of objection. None did. Loosely we moved as a group to the check-in spot, joining the back of the already enormous queue. I looked back for a moment to the female officer, who had been approached by one of the boys who, I could see now, had a wet patch running down his sweatpant leg. I felt pity for the boy but then forced myself to look away. It wasn't any of my business and it wasn't as if I could be much help to him.

I hugged myself for warmth and looked around at the controlled chaos everywhere.

There were all kinds of teenagers; tall ones, short ones, fat, skinny, black, white, asian. Seeing so many young faces in one place, lined up, looking both bored and angsty, made me think of school trips I had taken. One time I had gone with my drama class on a school trip to see a production of A Christmas Carol. I remembered seeing another class of students from another school lining up to see the production as well. There had been something familiar yet foreign and strangely novel about seeing the other class of students. I had found myself acknowledging that all of those students had full lives of their own; each fitted into their own little clique. A class of students that were essentially the same as the one I belonged to, but also different and unique in their own ways. Perhaps what captured my imagination about seeing another class of students was the idea that if I were somehow to change schools (back when I was at school) then I would come to learn more about each of their individual personalities. But at a glance, seeing them briefly on that school trip, all there was time for was the novelty of looking at the group but knowing any of them beyond that.

Although not quite deja vu, seeing the teenagers that had been brought from London and the inner city areas to this depo made me feel that same kind of novelty. Only this time I wondered who, out of all of them, I might eventually come to know on a personal level.