Mathias sped up. Earlier that day the teacher had taught them the meaning of the English word “leader.” It had made a huge impression on him. He liked how definitive it sounded, but most of all he liked the idea of being an example for others to follow.

The teacher had explained that a leader protects his team, which was exactly what Mathias tried to do with his friends. He knew they saw him as the head of their group, and not just because he was the eldest—ten years, two months, and two weeks old, to be precise—but because they knew they could rely on him.

That was why the scarf tied to the statue should have been his, not Diego’s. He should have gotten there first and led the way, though they all knew that path well enough by now. Instead, he’d wasted time staring at some dead animal on the side of the road. Maybe his father was right after all.

The grenadier’s bluff was surrounded by sheer rocky cliffs that plunged straight onto the bed of a stream. Water purled through fronds of dark reeds a few dozen meters below.

Mathias set out along the path that led down the cliff in sharp turns, bounding along as fast as he could and gripping the fence that flanked the track whenever he felt stones give way beneath the soles of his sneakers. He was out of breath by the time he reached the gravelly riverbed, his knees shaking and his face burning with the effort.

He followed the gully as it unfurled along its winding route, carved out over thousands of years. There were stepping stones over the water and wooden and metal stairways clinging to the rock walls. Beneath the metal grates the river was streaked with ruby-colored light, and smelled of ice. The light and the warmth of the sun rarely reached the depths of the ravine.

Mathias could hear the sounds of his own breathing and of his heart beating in his chest, and became aware of how completely alone he was. Tourists tended to favor the ski slopes at this time of year; it was too cold down here, and there was always the risk of a fall.

He started to walk faster without quite knowing why.

The sliver of sky he could see through the sharp peaks of the pine trees some sixty meters above his head was spanned by an old railway bridge from a line that was no longer operational. His grandfather’s grandfather had helped to build it, a century and a half ago.

Mathias was walking with his face upturned when he slipped on an icy rock and banged his knee. His exclamation was echoed by a sound coming from the forest. A low cry. He spun around, his breathing shallow.

His mother’s words leapt to his mind: “The forest is no place for children.”