‘Mothga. Make safe?’ I repeat quietly to myself. Mothga? A chilly breeze blows ripples in the river. I shiver. ‘I don’t know how to help you,’ I whisper to the boy.

I lay the pale spear on the sand by my side, then I shake off Dad’s backpack and rummage for something … something … helpful. For once I’m glad Dad’s too disorganised to ever clear out his bag, because, down beneath all the unhelpful somethings – the battered book, the empty water bottle, the pencils and receipts and chocolate wrappers and other rubbish – right down at the very bottom, all squished and crumpled, is one of his old checked shirts. That’ll keep the boy warm. I pull it out, give it a shake and, just for a second, I cuddle it close; it’s soft and warm and it smells like Dad.

The boy mutters but doesn’t wake as I tuck Dad’s shirt over him like a blanket. He shifts a little in his sleep and does a deep rattly sigh, like Dad’s shirt makes him feel safer too.

I shoo away the flies buzzing around the boy’s face and take a closer look at the sticky cut on his forehead. It’s deep and speckled with sand and mud. If it’s not infected yet it soon will be. I remember when our old cat King Tut walked on something sharp once and his paw got infected. He got really sick; it was horrible. Yes, I need to clean up that cut. I look around for something to do it with.

In his other hand the boy is holding something blue; it’s the pocket he ripped off my T-shirt. Gently, never taking my eyes off his face, I peel open his fingers. I soak the pocket in the river and squeeze it out.

‘This might sting a bit,’ I say softly. I wince as the water dribbles into the wound. I’m as gentle as I can be but the boy moans and twists his head from side to side. Luckily I don’t think he’s got enough strength to do anything more. Feeling braver, I slosh more water on to his head until the cut is nice and clean.

‘All done!’

Already his head looks so much better. And I’m sure the colour is starting to come back to his cheeks now he’s warming up. I rinse out the bloody pocket and tear another strip of fabric from round the bottom of my T-shirt. I hold the pocket on the cut and wrap the blue strip around his head as tightly as I can.

‘There!’ I lean back on my heels and admire my handiwork. Not a bad bandage actually. Even if I have made him look a bit like a pirate. My laugh surprises me.

The boy opens his eyes; well, he opens one of them. He can’t fully open his left eye because of the bandage and that makes him look even more wonky and pirate-ish. I giggle again.