I shrug at the older Andrew. "I found these clothes by a pond."
"And you just took them?"
"When you put it like that," I say, "it does seem a strange thing to do. Sorry but my own clothes were ruined when I... fell and I didn't really question a bit of good luck."
If only I could remember how I got here and where I was supposed to be instead. It all feels like a weird dream, which I’m sure it is, as if things have been reframed between one heartbeat and the next. I swear I remembered more when I woke up in Young Andrew's bed than I do now.
"You're from The World Above? That explains it. You're probably concussed, confused and desperate for the way out," says the older Andrew. "Could happen to anyone. Maybe you should come back to meet my wife and have a restful cup of tea. Maybe dinner?"
I notice he doesn't ask about his boy or even comment on what his son's clothes must have been doing next to a pond. This is not a good thing. I need him to go away and leave me alone.
"Of course, the world above," I say.
How the bloody hell do I get out of here? If it's a dream I want to wake up.
The older Andrew opens his mouth again and I feel sick because I know he's about to ask me to enter his house again. I can't do that. He'll be just like his son. Or worse. Not that I know exactly what the Young Andrew did. I just feel bruises and soreness where I know I shouldn't.
"How do I get back to it?" I ask before the older Andrew can say anything.
"You're going the wrong way for that," he says.
I look around to see if I can spot any signs in the landscape of anything that might be a right way. What would it look like? All I can see is trees, forest, that tower around village and its fields. Actually, I don't really see the whole forest. I'm at the wrong angle so the bulk of it falls behind the first row. It's even flatter here than it is around Howden.
"And if you're looking for squirrels," he says.
He's smiling at me. He probably thinks he's being charming rather than irritating.
"Which way do I go?" I ask.
"I really think you should have a rest and let someone look at your head," he says.
He still hasn't mentioned his son. Perhaps he doesn't care what happened. Or perhaps he'll go looking but only after he's sure his little bit of prey is somewhere safe.
I am not prey.
"Which way?" I ask.
"That way," he points back the way I came, "but you should really sit down for a while. You look tired and pale. My wife would be very upset if I let you go on without offering hospitality."
"I've got to go," I say and walk back the way I came as fast as I can.