A low branch came out of nowhere and I ducked just in time, then tripped and fell, throwing out my hands to stop myself from hitting the ground face first. Emma cried out but clung on as we fell. Her back hit the ground though not hard. My arms jarred with the force of the fall. I gritted my teeth and told Emma she’d have to run now. She let go of me and pushed herself to her feet, slotting her hand into mine. We ran. In the distance I could see light penetrating the trees. The woods were coming to an end. Beyond the trees lay a field. A field would be easier to run through – for us and for Mother. But maybe someone would be in the field. A farmer perhaps.

My lungs burned. Emma was too slow. I considered carrying her again but that would mean stopping to pick her up. Was Mother still following us? Since that last, terrifying scream, she hadn’t made a sound.

Unable to resist, I glanced back. Mother was nowhere to be seen. I frowned and faced forward. Had she given up? Had she fallen over? Twisted her ankle?

The thought was like the feeling of hot water on aching muscles but I fought the urge to slow down and carried on running, pulling Emma along behind me. And there was the light – more light – shining through the gaps between the trees. And green – so much green. I could see the field. Not long now until we broke out of the woods into open air.

But at the edge of the woods we reached a fence topped with silver thorns of wire which ran as high as my waist. I stopped, picked up Emma and heaved her over the fence, lifting her as high as I could to avoid the thorns.

‘Keep running,’ I said. She didn’t move. I shouted at her to go and she jumped. Tears sprang to her eyes and her chin wobbled.

‘I don’t want to leave you,’ she said.

I nodded, not wanting to waste time arguing, and carefully placed my hand on a small section of wire between the knots, noticing further up the fence a clump of white wool snagged on a thorn. My heart leapt; wool meant sheep or goats; sheep or goats meant farmers or shepherds or goatherds, like kind young Peter, the goatherd in Heidi; farmers, shepherds or goatherds meant help.

I swung my leg over the fence, pushing down on the wire with my hand. The fence wobbled and I fell, tearing my other leg on a thorn as it followed my body onto the grass. A sharp pain speared my calf. I looked down, wincing. The vicious metal had ripped a three-inch cut down my leg. Blood dribbled out and down my leg like water out of a tap.

‘Are you OK?’ Emma said.