The events described in this story are fictional. The author makes no assertion about the lives or characters of the real people whose names and identities she has used in the writing of this story, and makes no money from it.


The wood is an endless tangle of dark. Branches coil and writhe and knot themselves into confusion. Wet leaves choke the gaps, blotting out tiny splinters of sky. This morning the birds came down and ate their breadcrumb trail all up. They are lost.

"Well, this is no good," says Dom. "We'll never find the way. Why don't we go back and ask directions at that weird sticky-looking house that smelt of biscuits?"

Billy looks at him, and at the bewildering forest, then touches him gently on the arm. "Dom," he says. "It's time to look at the map."