Reception had slipped down to one bar before it disappeared totally. I’m on the right track, though, as I’d tried to commit the rest of the way to memory; the path ahead is going to bend round towards the edge of the trees and there’ll be a field. I’ll need to skirt that, before diving back into the forest, following a small path that should lead me right to the property whose roof had just been visible on the phone. I move forward. The path does bend and I step into a field flooded with moonlight, almost too bright after the dark of the forest. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust. I pick out a pale structure off to the right.

It’s a ribcage.

I move towards it only to see it’s not human. Given the size it most likely belonged to a fallen sheep. I spot the skull lying a few metres away. There’s no way of telling if the head had been detached before it died or after. The bones are clean of flesh and glow eerily in the moonlight. My lip twitches. I move on. I’m suddenly worried that I’m wrong, but there’s a feeling inside, a kind of animal sense, that tells me this is right, that I need to carry on. There is no other option.

I give in to it, picking my way along the path, slippery with dry pine needles and roots which course across it at random, ready to trip me up. At first I’m tentative but I gradually find a rhythm and soon I’m moving with a confidence and fluidity I didn’t know was possible. I’m slipping in and out of it more easily now, the transitions aren’t so jarring; it’s almost like I’m both at once, me and the wolf.

The question is, am I the black one, or the white?

On the path again I break off to investigate a tree, before pissing against it in a hot gush illuminated by a sliver of moonlight breaking through the dense canopy. It starts to rain again, softly.

I find it. I’m crouched by a large pine tree with the wooden hut up ahead. The forest drips around me. I take in the structure. You probably could just about fit a family in it for a holiday, so it’s easily big enough for one person. It’s quiet; no lights on, though that’s hardly surprising as we’re probably not far off dawn. It’s made of rough-hewn planks, both the walls and the sloping roof. There’s a crooked drainpipe which leads to a water butt on one side. The front door looks sturdy. I sniff the air before creeping forward.