I reach out, just able to touch the hull across the short gap. My fingers come away black with soot. I trace a diagonal line with my forefinger right across my forehead. I do another one. And another. The reality settles in. Joel was right, this was a warning. And the only people who would want to warn me off are DH Biotech. The question is, what are they hiding that they’re so scared I might find out? It’s looking like people died because of them; is that it, is that what they’re afraid I might find?

‘What are you hiding?’ I ask the night just as I get a sense that all of a sudden I’m not alone. There’s a presence behind me. I tense, fully expecting a blow or a shot.

I slowly turn my head. There’s something there.

It’s … a black wolf.

My heart’s hammering in my chest before I realize that … it’s Kush. Standing there. Alive.

He’s looking at me as if trying to figure something out.

I’m up and moving towards him and his tail starts to twitch gently, then he moves forward, maybe deciding that he does know me after all.

Which is when I see he’s limping badly; he can’t use one of his front legs. He’s holding it up, and as I get close I can see fur ripped open to reveal a fleshy gash.

In the end I carry him all the way to Rozengracht where the first two taxis refuse to take me but the third tells me to hop in whilst he looks up emergency vets on his phone. Kush is in a bad way. He’s barely moving, the wound worse than I thought now I can see it properly in the cold light coming from a spot by the rear-view. But he’s alive. He’s alive and I’ve found him. Or rather, he found me. The taxi driver decides the best place is the animal hospital on Leuvenstraat and soon we’re plunging south through the city, the traffic light. Kush is panting hard now, his tongue hanging like limp fabric. It’s only when we pull up outside the place I realize I have no money. The driver waves it off. He has a dog himself he says. Least he can do. I thank him and lift Kush out.

Before he was panting hard, now he’s hardly breathing, his body slack. I burst through the doors and a woman in scrubs looks up from behind her desk. She comes round and quickly inspects Kush, who hardly seems present.

‘It looks like he may have a broken bone,’ she says. ‘And he’s lost a lot of blood. We’ll need to operate. Can you carry him through to the back?’