‘Harby,’ I whisper, my breath catching in my throat.

He looks at me and I can tell from his wide eyes that he’s having the same thought.

‘Harby, we’re stuck! What are we going to do?’

STUCK

Harby does a very slow blink. Then he opens his eyes and turns his gaze to me. ‘We wait,’ he says flatly. He looks disappointed and sad.

‘What?’ I shake my head in confusion. ‘What do we wait for? Who’s going to come and rescue us?’

‘We wait, Cholliemurrum.’ He points at the sun. ‘We wait. Night come. Wolf go. We go.’ He picks up a stone and starts sharpening his spearhead with it.

He makes it all sound so very plain and simple that for a second I don’t properly get it. Then I understand: we’re trapped up here until the wolf pack leaves their den. Our only way back is the way we came. My stomach churns queasily with dread.

Scrape scrape scrape goes Harby’s sharpening stone.

I hug my knees and watch a bird of prey circle in the air above the Spirit Stone. I think back to yesterday, when I was there, right there, with Beaky and Lamont, when I threw my pebble up and over the Spirit Stone. It feels almost like I was a different me then or something. ‘Charlie Merriam,’ I murmur. My real name sounds alien in this fresh wild air.

The sun slips slowly lower. A marmalade cloud like a scribbled Z drifts behind the trees. It must be getting really late. I don’t know how long I’ve been gone, but Mum and Dad will be properly worried by now. I feel small and sorry. I sniff.

Harby sniffs.

We look at each other.

‘What’s wrong, Harby?’

He has put down his sharpening stone and is twizzling the ends of one of the string bracelets on his arm.

‘Mothga?’ I say softly.

Harby nods; his spear hand is clenched and his eyes squeezed shut. ‘Mothga,’ he says, his voice choked and strange like it’s wrapped tight in brambles. ‘I not find Mothga, Cholliemurrum. I not make safe.’ A fat tear escapes and trickles down his cheek. Then another.

I swallow. ‘It’s OK, Harby.’ My own voice is bramble-strangled too. ‘It’ll be OK. Don’t give up. We’ll find your sister. She’ll be OK.’

Harby’s teary eyes are open now and blackbird bright; he watches me curiously, his head on one side. Quick as a flash he reaches out and touches my cheek. Then licks his finger. ‘You cry, Cholliemurrum. Why you cry? Mothga not your baby sister.’ His eyebrows are low with puzzlement.

I bite my lip. ‘I have a baby brother,’ I whisper.

‘Baby brother!’ echoes Harby admiringly, and he pats me on the back, like it’s a great achievement. ‘What your baby brother name?’

‘Dara,’ I say softly, not meeting his eyes.

‘DaRA!’ declares Harby in a warrior voice. Like Dara is bold and tough and brave. Not tiny and weak and … my eyes fill with fresh tears.