After trudging along streets of terraced houses for an hour or so they came to a house which looked different from the others. There were no lights to be seen. Every window was boarded up. There was a builder’s skip outside in the road. The place was obviously being renovated, so it had to be empty. Becky opened the little iron gate and peered into the front garden. An old garden shed stood in the corner behind the hedge, the door open and swinging in the wind. There was no one about. It was worth a risk, worth a look.

The shed turned out to be a perfect hideaway, small and snug with a pile of sacks in one corner that made a perfect bed. Becky pulled the door to behind them, and they made it their own. They ate together, Becky sharing out the bread and the cheese. “One for you, one for me,” was the only way to do it fairly. Brighteyes was so hungry he barely chewed at all before swallowing, and then he was waiting for the next offering. Becky was ravenous too, but even so she forced herself not to eat it all at once, but save a little for later: just half a bread roll and half an apple. Not much, but something. It would do for breakfast.

As she was feeding Brighteyes, she talked to him, but in a whisper. “No one’ll find us here, not if we’re careful. We can creep in here every night. No one’ll know.” The blanket she’d bought was just about big enough to cover them both. Lying there in the dark, the shed smelt musty and damp, and it creaked horribly in the wind. Sometimes she could hear footsteps going by outside, and voices too, but none of that mattered to Becky. She was asleep almost at once.

She slept fitfully but deeply, in and out of episodic dreams, and in every one of them her father was there. He was up on the rock on High Moor, pushing her on a swing, and she was shrieking out to him: “Higher! Higher! Higher!” He was coming out of the shop with the milk in his hand, and the lorry was hurtling down the hill, heading straight for him. As she slept and dreamed, Brighteyes lay there listening to her breathing, to the night noises of the city, all the while alert for danger, knowing it was out there somewhere, that he had to be ready for it, whatever it was.

Early the next morning, leaving the blanket behind in their hideaway, they stole out into the street and went down to the river. Geese came flying in, some ducks and a heron or two. Brighteyes sat watching it all intently, and didn’t seem to want to come away when Becky called him. “We’ll come back, Brighteyes,” she told him. “I’m cold. I’ve got to keep walking, or I’ll freeze.”

So they walked on along the river until they came to a park with trees all around and ponds. There were swings here and slides, with children shouting and laughing and playing. For a while Brighteyes was happy just to watch them, his ears swivelling constantly as he listened. In the end he just couldn’t resist it. He ran off to be with the children, bounding around them and barking playfully. Becky called him back, but it was too late. A couple of the children had taken fright and were running screaming to their mothers.