At the heart of this mess, I saw my Steven, lying next to a fence, dazed and bleeding profusely from a wound on his head. He was sobbing and calling my name. I flew to him and flung my arms about him as great waves of relief flooded through me.

But my arms grasped the air. I ended up clinging to myself as it began to dawn on me that I would never hold him again. I fell to my knees next to him and wailed. I screamed his name, willing him to hear me.

But he didn’t.

Ian. I needed to find Ian. As if in answer to my silent call, he came running over to us. “Steven…â€? He said gently, placing a caring hand on Steve’s shoulder. In the reflection of the fire I could see tears streaking his dirt-smudged face.

Steven looked up at him with his eyebrows furrowed in resignation. “I found him. Can you stand up?â€?

“Is he… Is he all right? Don’t say it. Of course he’s not. He’s dead, he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead…â€? Steven repeated those two words over and over until he was screaming them.