I lie and listen to the rhythmic scrape-scrape, scrape-scrape of stone sharpening stone. I’m tired … so tired … so so tired …

HOT

A gentle crackle wakes me. Warmth on my back. The soft grey smell of woodsmoke.

I open my eyes. I’m by a campfire, and for a tiny flicker of a moment I think it’s my birthday camping, with Beaky and Lamont and Nero. But it’s not. I’m still here lying on the mossy stone platform, high above Harby’s wild forest. I’ve never been up here before, in my world I mean; the cliff’s too steep to climb and it’s all fenced off anyway, with ‘Danger’ signs showing pictures of landslides and giant exclamation marks. And I’ve never been at the top of the cliff before either, that’s a street called Windy Hill and it’s where all the posh houses are – you have to press a buzzer outside the entrance gates to even get on to Windy Hill. But I’m far far far from gated streets and sensible warning signs.

I blink in wonder. Spread out before me is the endless forest, the trees dim in the lack of light, like they’re unfinished somehow, drawn in pencil and not coloured in. On the horizon is a splendid rage of red and pink and gold where the sun once was and elsewhere the sky is streaked in bruise colours: eggy yellow, dark purple. The air is noisy with squawks and squeals and flusters and chirrups as all the forest creatures settle themselves for the night. Well … maybe not all …

I hear the skitter and yelp of wolves moving about down there in their cavern den. Soon the wolf pack will leave for the night to prowl and stalk and hunt in the dark. We can go down there then and escape. I shiver at the thought.

I roll over. Harby has made a fire in the lee of the cliff that looms above us. He’s crouched down, poking it with a long stick. He smiles a little smile and with his stick he pushes something small and black through the ashes towards me.

While I’ve been asleep Harby’s heaped a little pile of the small black things by my side. They look like rabbit droppings.

‘What is it?’ I ask.

‘Hot!’ says Harby.

‘I get that, Harby, but what is it?’

‘Hot!’ He moves his hand towards the flames and pretends to touch them, then pulls back fast, blowing on his fingers theatrically.

‘Hot!’ he says again, like a warning to a toddler.

I can’t help laughing.

‘I know fire’s hot, Harby!’ I point at the little blackened balls by my side. ‘What are these?’

‘Hot!’

I give up.

Harby has his own little pile of hot black things. I watch him bash one on a rock, peel it, then pop it in his mouth. Even if they are rabbit droppings he seems to find them pretty tasty and I’m so hungry I could eat anything. I pick one up and quickly drop it again.