I scream. I sound like a small animal. I sound like prey.

I hear a thunk and a thrum. The wolf lets out a yelp and falls hot and heavy on top of me, thrashing his head from side and side and snapping his jaws. I try to wriggle out from beneath him but his writhing body keeps me pinned to the ground. I get my right arm free and shield my face from his gnashing jaws. I feel him weakening and with my right arm and both my legs I shove, using all my strength, and the wolf rolls off me on to the floor. There’s a creak and a splintery snap, like a branch is breaking and, from inside the wolf’s body, a terrible tearing sound. The wolf sighs and is still.

I lie there, next to the dead wolf, panting. I open and close my hands, flex my trembling fingers. Everything hurts but I’m alive. It doesn’t seem possible. I nearly died. That was almost the end. But somehow … I’m still here … alive … OK.

I hear raspy breathing and struggle to sit up in the darkness.

‘Who’s there?’ I whisper.

I GIVE THANKS

A rattly cough.

‘Cholliemurrum?’ mutters the boy’s gruff voice.

Suddenly my eyes fill up with tears. I sniff and bite my lip but the tears pour out anyway and I sob so hard I’m shaking all over.

‘You cry, Cholliemurrum?’ asks the boy’s voice in the dark.

‘Yes,’ I say, my own voice all strange and choked.

‘Not cry, Cholliemurrum.’ The boy speaks softly.

I hear his limping footsteps coming towards me, see his tear-blurred outline silhouetted in the yellowish storm light. He sits down beside me in the dark; I can feel the warmth of him and smell his human smell. I turn to face him. I open my mouth to speak but no words come out.

‘Not cry, Cholliemurrum,’ says the boy again, and he touches my wet cheek. His skin is rough but he’s gentle.

I shudder and I cry and I feel like I’ll never be able to stop.

‘Wolf breath gone, Cholliemurrum,’ says the boy.

I feel his hand grasp mine and pull it gently towards the wolf’s lifeless body. I try to draw back but the boy holds on tightly, guiding my hand across the wolf’s furry belly. His hand shows my hand a place where the wolf’s fur is warm and sticky with blood; I curl back my fingers but his hand holds me there.

‘Wolf in spirit sleep,’ whispers the boy. ‘I kill wolf dead.’

‘I know,’ I say, sniffing. ‘Thank you.’

I stretch out my fingers and wrap them tightly around the smooth wooden spear, imagining that it was me who had thrown it, swift and true through the dark. The boy puts his big hand around mine. Together we wrench the spear free.

The boy lays his palm on the wolf’s wound.

‘I give thanks,’ he says. For a moment I think he’s thanking me, but then I realise he’s talking to the wolf.