They think the noise is me.

The thing in the undergrowth rustles again.

Lamont signals a countdown with his fingers:

Three.

Two.

One.

The Hunters charge into the bushes, yelling, their sticks raised high.

A young deer bounds out on the opposite side, tail pale amongst the tree shadows. It springs away and is gone.

Nero chases after the deer, barking.

‘NERO!’ yell Lamont and Beaky, waist-deep in a tangle of brambles.

I see my chance.

I touch wood, just for luck, then I scramble from my tree and I run.

Beaky shouts, ‘It’s Charlie!’

But I don’t look back. Down the hill, through the forest, towards the river. My feet pound the ground and my fists pummel the air. I charge over the wooden bridge, and up the steep gravel path on the other side. Each breath is heavy. My chest hurts. At Druid’s Well, I swerve off the path and run straight up through the bracken. I know exactly where I’m going.

I hear the thump of the Hunters running across the bridge. They’re gaining on me.

I pass the rope swing and run through the patch of wild mint until I reach the edge of the clearing. Panting, I look back over my shoulder: all clear. I run out of the tree cover and up the mound, tugging on tufts of grass to heave myself right up to the top.

I reach the Spirit Stone and I lean with my forehead pressed on to the cool grey rock.

‘Home!’ I say, high-fiving the Spirit Stone.

Slumping downxs on to the grass, I close my eyes and gasp air into my aching lungs.

I won the game.

Nero reaches the Spirit Stone next. He just stands there panting. Lamont and Beaky don’t bother running the last bit, not once they know I’ve beaten them. Lamont clambers up the mound and flops down next to me.

‘Close one, Charlie,’ he says. ‘That deer put us off.’

‘Just you blame the deer,’ I say. Lamont does a little half-laugh and pokes me in the side. Nero comes over, long tail wagging, his eyes on the stick in his owner’s hand.

‘Go get it, Nero.’ Lamont tosses the stick into the clearing. Nero charges all the way back down the hill again.

‘Oi!’ yells Beaky, still staggering up the mound. ‘You nearly got me with that stick, Lamont!’ When Beaky finally reaches the Spirit Stone she collapses beside us, breathing hard. ‘Next time,’ she pants, ‘there’s absolutely – no – way – I’m being – a Hunter – that forest is far – far –’ she swallows – ‘far too big – to find – anyone – in.’

‘Just you blame the forest, Beaky,’ I say. We all laugh, even Beaky.

We sit there, saying nothing, gazing out over our forest. I look at the gleaming river; I follow its twists and bends all the way through the forest, right out to where it widens and becomes the distant silver haze of the sea. I look at the far-off farmland cut neatly into green rectangles of fields, like slices of cake. I look at the town, how it spreads greyly up from the riverbanks, surrounding our forest, which surrounds this clearing, which surrounds this mound, which surrounds the Spirit Stone. Home. If I stretch my neck, I can just about see the roof of my actual home, where Dad is probably making tea for poor Mum, still stuck in bed waiting for the baby who’ll be born soon.