‘Mummy!’ Jack is shouting, near hysterical. ‘Mummy, come back. Mummy, please!’ I race upstairs, Duval’s warnings flooding back to me. What if she’s been bitten by that spider he was talking about, the brown recluse? What if, right now, her flesh is beginning to soften and turn necrotic? What if she has that mouse disease, Hunter’s, apparently so prevalent round here? I remember the feel of the dead mouse under my foot our first night. How many times have I let the children scramble through the cabins, breathing in the deadly ammonia of stale droppings? Dear God, what if she’s been bitten by a snake and no one noticed? Except I’m being ridiculous. I check their bedroom and mine every night. Of course she hasn’t been bitten by a snake and I curse Duval for filling my head with so much paranoid terror I can barely think straight. In the bedroom Jack is staring down at Emmy on the bed. Her screams are shorter now, high-pitched, urgent. I strip off her nightdress. She’s boiling.

‘Go get a wet towel, Jack,’ I order. He stands stupefied. ‘It’s okay.’ I steady my voice. ‘Use cold water, but do it now.’

I check her body, but who can tell if there’s a rash amongst Emmy’s plethora of scratches, her eczema scabs, her patches of dry skin and bruises? Who could say if she had a rash, had been bitten by a spider or simply neglected by a crappy mother? Jack races back with the towel and I sponge her down then wrap her loosely in the sheet.

‘Turn off the sun,’ she moans.

‘It’s just the light, baby.’

‘Turn off the sun, the wolf is coming,’ she screams, and then, without warning, she convulses, her arms and legs spasm and her head jerks from side to side.

‘Emmy!’ I shout. ‘Emmy! EMMY!’ I want to shake her, to restrain her, do something, anything to stop it, but I don’t dare. Her eyes turn back into her head. She goes suddenly rigid then seems to relax in my arms, her eyes closed.

‘Jack, get your shoes and a jumper.’

‘No, no.’ He stands white with fear, sobbing hysterically.

‘Go!’ I shout and he turns and runs. I throw on my own clothes and grab my bag. Benjamín will help us. Benjamín will know where to go.

Benjamín doesn’t answer the door. I bang again, shout his name, but the cabin is silent, empty. Back in the truck Jack sits ramrod straight, holding Emmy in her blanket as though she is something putrid and dangerous which might explode at any given moment.

‘She’s going to die, isn’t she?’ he says dully.