‘We give thanks,’ echoes Harby.

‘We give thanks,’ I whisper too.

Harby’s dad lays the spear next to her, then reaches forward towards her face. I strain my neck to see what he’s doing. Harby’s ma is wearing a deertooth on her necklace too. Harby’s pa lifts her deertooth carefully and presses his thumb to its point.

A bead of blood forms. He draws a line of blood across his forehead and softly draws one on hers.

‘Make safe,’ he says, and he leans over and kisses her.

Harby climbs down and kneels beside his dad. He pricks his own thumb, draws his own blood lines, kisses his mum.

‘Make safe,’ he says.

I sit on the grass next to Mothga, stroking her little hand. She holds my finger tightly as she sleeps.

‘Make safe,’ I whisper too.

I look at Harby and his dad and his mum, all curled up together in the hollow. I think of the wolf pack and how they all slept as one, how they howled together and looked after each other. Like a family would.

Like my family would. My family. Where are they now? Mum in the hospital. Dad in our house. Dara in his little incubator after his operation. Me here. I want to go home. I want to go home and wrap my arms tight around them all. I want to make safe.

‘I give thanks,’ I whisper to my family, far far away.

Gently, gently I unwrap Mothga’s hand from my finger.

The low rhythmic hum of spirit song fills the air as Harby and his dad sing quietly to Harby’s mum, taking it in turns. Now and then I can make out some words I know.

‘Ma,’ they sing, and ‘spea’, and ‘Pa’, and ‘Mothga’. Like they’re singing the story of themselves.

A movement amongst the dappled leaves catches my eye; someone else is watching.

HARTBOY

At the edge of the glade the leaves shiver and a hart steps out into the glade. He’s huge and golden in the sunshine. His magnificent antlers are like the branches of a winter tree. I keep very still.

The hart looks at me. He raises his chin, sniffs the air, flicks his ears.

‘I won’t hurt you,’ I whisper. But I don’t think he believes me. He holds my gaze as he stamps his front foot on the ground. At his warning, the forest comes alive with the sound of his herd running away to safety. I glimpse flashes of white tails vanishing into the trees.

The hart watches me until the last of his herd has fled. He blinks, turns tail and leaps away into the shadows.

‘Hart,’ I whisper. I stand in the huge wildness of this place and just for a moment I let it be mine.

Over in the hollow, I hear Harby sing my name, ‘Cholliemurrum.’

‘Hartboy,’ sings Harby’s dad. He reaches out and strokes his son’s hair. His eyes are full of love. The spirit song is over.