Cradling the baby in my arms, I step into the glade. The warmth of the sun on my damp shoulders feels so lovely. I close my eyes and lift my face to the sunlight. A warm breeze passes over my skin, soft as a kiss. Above me leaves flicker and the gentle hum of small creatures makes a yellow sound, like summer. I look down at baby Mothga, still wrapped in the soft animal skin. She’s fast asleep. I bring her up to my face and I feel her little breaths, in and out, cool then warm on my cheek. I kiss her soft fuzz of hair. My own breath steadies; my own heart calms.

I stroke Mothga’s perfect little fingers. Her tiny hand stretches, finds my own finger and closes around it, tight like a ring. My eyes prickle; I wonder if Dara would’ve held on to my finger like this. If I’d let him. If I’d held him. I close my eyes and rock the baby gently in my arms, letting myself imagine that this is Dara. A warm wave passes through me, soft and golden as morning sunshine. I don’t know how long I stand there for, holding Mothga, remembering my brother who I barely even met, but who I already love so much. Mothga wakes. Her perfectly round eyes look trustingly into mine and I feel awful because I realise that Harby loved his sister too and he is gone.

I should’ve helped Harby. I should’ve understood. He helped me be brave enough to stand my ground and face all the terrors of this wild place. Mothga squirms in my arms. I remember the little girl in the hospital with the balloon I wanted to pop and suddenly I feel that fizzing heat in my head again, like I felt I would pop too. Maybe if I’d met Harby before Dara was born, I would’ve been different; maybe I’d have been able to be braver, maybe I wouldn’t have run away.

‘You shouldn’t have run away either, Harby,’ I whisper, gazing into the squawking, chirping greenness and wishing I’d helped him, wishing I’d helped my friend to face whatever it was he was so afraid of. I hang my head.

‘Make safe,’ I breathe. Isn’t that what Harby wanted more than anything? To make Mothga safe? I feel my shoulders slump with worry. But how can I make this tiny baby safe? I’m only twelve. I don’t know how to take care of a baby, not even at home, let alone in the Stone Age.

A cloud passes overhead and the brightness dims. One thing’s for certain: we won’t be safe here for long. Not with that wild man trying to hunt us down. I’ve got to think, got to decide what to do.

I wipe my eyes and look around properly. The glade has been formed by a fallen tree. It’s a big willow and it looks freshly toppled because it still has its leaves and its tangled roots are dark with damp earth. I walk over to the tree. It’s split right through its middle; the split is blackened and smells of woodsmoke. It must have been struck by lightning in the storm. I lay my hand on the tree’s smooth bark and turn my face up to the sun. Mothga wriggles and mewls in my other arm. I look down at the hollow left in the earth where the tree roots once were; it’s not a deep dark abyss like the sinkhole, more of a shallow crater.