Every night in Calais, France, aid groups give out food and clothes to migrants. On a cold winter night, a young boy stands by a van, looking wide-eyed and shy. He speaks neither French nor English. One of the men here tells me he is from Eritrea and his name is Tachloin.
“His age is 12," the man says.
“Twelve?” I asked, stunned.
“Twelve,” he repeated, “one-two.”