He’s in such a good mood, and he’s probably right. Even if I can’t direct things perfectly, we’ll both come out of the dream cycle, anyway, waking up normally in our beds at home, in about twenty minutes. I’ll soon dry out.

Relax, Malky! It’ll be perfectly safe. Just like a normal dream where weird stuff happens.

I try to convince myself, I really do. I tell myself, Let it be …

‘Come on, Malky,’ he says. ‘We’re on a food raid, remember? Just like in the book!’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ I sigh. ‘You win.’

I move forward on to the lip of the low cliff, where the lake tumbles over the rock in a massive waterfall, like the drawing in the book. I release the big breath that I took and sniff the air, turning my head completely in line with the horizon.

The smell is coming from where the sun is just beginning to set, painting the Gravy Lake brownish-pink. Someone is roasting meat. Mammoth? I turn back to the others and nod. ‘Meat,’ I say. Kobi’s cartoon lips part in a wide grin and he sticks out his tongue with pleasure. He has no fear about what might come next. He never does. Beside him, Erin stands up and holds her hand out to old Farook who waves it away and gets to her feet with a small grunt.

(Seb made up most of the names, by the way. Just thought I’d say that. Erin is a kid in his class.)

Through the trees, there’s a huge rock and, a little further on, the faint glow of a fire.

Stealing meat from another tribe is a huge risk. In the book, it’s all fine and happy-endy: the tribe gives us meat because we’re hungry, then Kobi gets to ride on a mammoth. We’ve never actually got that far in the dream, we’ve always been side-tracked. It’s probably why Seb doesn’t want to leave. He really wants to ride that mammoth, and I can’t say I blame him.

I crouch behind the rock and pick up a lump of dirt and sniff it, recoiling at the foul smell of dog poo. ‘Dogs,’ I whisper, wiping it off my fingers. Even in the dark, I see a flash of fear pass over Erin’s face. We all know about the dogs. The other tribe travels with them. They can talk to them, give them names and commands, just like we do in real life. The dogs attack when told to. They are terrifying, even in a dream.

Then from behind me I hear a sound: r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r. I swallow and spin round: there it is. An old black-and-ginger hound with a grey muzzle. Its head is held low, ready to pounce; its eyes flash amber in the low sun. It lifts up one misshapen front paw, twisted from some old injury, and growls again.