Later, as Harold wiped the cooking tin with a piece of newspaper and returned it to his rucksack, the boy amused himself with throwing a stone into the undergrowth for the dog. It yelped wildly and scurried into the darkness, returning with the stone and posting it at Wilf’s feet. It occurred to Harold how much he had grown used to both solitude and silence.

They lay in their sleeping bags, and Wilf asked if they might pray. Harold said, “I have no objection to other people doing it; but if you don’t mind, I won’t join in.”

Wilf clenched his hands into a ball, and screwed his eyes closed. With his nails so ragged, the skin at his fingertips looked too tender. He bowed his head, like a child, and whispered words that Harold did not care to overhear. Harold hoped there was someone, or something, apart from himself, listening. There was a trace of light left in the sky as they drifted into sleep. The cloud was low, and the air hung still; he was sure it wouldn’t rain.

Despite his prayers, Wilf woke crying out in the night, and shivering. Harold took him in his arms but the boy was covered in sweat. He worried he had been wrong about the fungus, although he hadn’t made a mistake so far.

“What’s that noise?” Wilf shuddered.

“Just foxes. Maybe dogs. And sheep too. I can definitely hear sheep.”

“We didn’t pass any sheep.”

“No. But you hear more of what is around at night. You get used to that quickly. Don’t worry. Nothing will hurt you.”

He rubbed his back and coaxed him to sleep, the way Maureen used to do with David when he got the frights after his Lake District holiday. “It’s all right. It’s all right,” he repeated, just the way she would. He wished he had found a better place for Wilf’s first night; there had been an unlocked glass summerhouse a few evenings back, and Harold had slept in comfort on a wicker sofa. Even underneath a bridge would have been better than this, although there was always the worry of attracting attention.

“It’s fucking freaky,” said Wilf. His teeth were knocking. Harold pulled out Queenie’s knitted beret and fitted it over the boy’s head.

“I used to have bad dreams but they stopped as I walked. It will be the same for you.”

For the first time in weeks, Harold did not sleep that night. He sat watching over the boy, remembering the past, and asking himself why David had made the choices he had; whether Harold should have seen the seeds of them right from the beginning. Would it have been the same, if David had had a different father? It was a long while since such questions had troubled him. The dog lay at his side.