Westerly came down the path at a long lope, sliding over the short moorland grass. His pack thumped against his back with each stride. A lark flicked suddenly into the air a yard away from him; flew low for a few feet; dropped; flew again.
“Go home,” he said. “It’s not you they want.”
He strode on without pausing, without turning to see the bird wheel and dart her watchful way back to the...