It was smooth all over and kept him safe. They found a dozen neatly balanced cairns under a dozen different bushes, but the white stone, as Jake remembered it, was never recovered. He had cried softly to himself in his mother’s arms as they drove home. Frank had felt uneasy for days after that and had bought a flat, white moonstone from a local craft shop, more to appease himself than to reassure Jake.

The boy had looked at him, unblinking, and Frank had felt exposed by his son’s simple intelligence.

“This ain’t for safety, Daddy,” he said. And he had placed it back in his father’s hand, where it rested, round as an eye.

* * *

The oak tree under which they customarily ate their picnic was situated at the top of a large incline overlooking the woods. The climb was a difficult one for Jake but the payoff was worth it. Frank would lift him into the lowest branches of the tree and he would sit, nestled in the palm of the great oak, eating his sandwiches and looking out at the distant children clambering over the fort like ants.

Today was no different. They had made the journey in good time and all three of them stood at the top of the incline with the wind blowing grit through their hair. Jake reached his hands out to Frank.

“I can climb now,” he said, as though pointing out that the allotted time for this very thing had arrived.

Frank checked instinctively with Cindy, who nodded. “I guess that’s the green light,” he said.

He lifted Jake into the lowest branches of the oak and held him steady.

“Careful now,” Frank muttered. “I don’t want to have to run down that bloody hill for first aid.”

Jake wasn’t even listening. He found his familiar spot in the crook of the old oak and waited for Cindy to feed him. He looked imperious, Frank thought, as though the bark had been levelled to receive him. He looked up at his son, who was now reaching out for his packed lunch, and noticed something disagreeable. From this angle, he could only see the top half of Jake’s body, and it looked like the boy was being drawn into the trunk of the old oak. Either that or, arms extended, he was desperately trying to claw himself free.

The image evaporated as soon as Cindy handed Jake his lunch, but Frank found the suddenness of it, the speed and force with which the image had come upon him, difficult to dislodge. It stayed with him all during lunch, and he found himself glancing into the tree every few seconds to ensure that Jake was still safely balanced in the dark arms of the oak.

“What’s that?” Jake said, his attention suddenly caught by something that neither Frank nor Cindy were able to see. He put down his sandwich and started fidgeting in the branch. Frank rose quickly and steadied him with a gentle hand.

“Give up,” he said. “Why don’t you describe it for us?” This was a trick Cindy had taught him to try and broaden the boy’s vocabulary, forcing him to re-evaluate his own surroundings.

“That’s easy,” he said, laughing. “It’s a red ball. See?”

Frank looked through the thick grass and could just make out the upper rim of a deflated football. From this distance it looked incongruous against the swaying grass, like a lipsticked smile turned upside down.

Jake was already clambering from the tree, assuming that his father would crane him to safety long before he crashed to the ground.

“I can get it, can I?” he said, already running towards the ball. Frank laughed at the boy’s diverting syntax, finding it immeasurably cute.

“Can he?”

Cindy sighed. “We already have a football,” she said. “Why on earth would we want a dead one?”

“You’re missing the point. Look at him. He’s like a hunter chasing down his prey!”

They both laughed and began tidying away the leftover lunch.

“Straight back!” Frank shouted to Jake over his shoulder. “We want to see what you’ve caught!”

He turned around, smiling, and instantly froze. Jake was standing with the deflated ball at his feet.