OK, stop a second and put yourself in my shoes just for a moment, because if you don’t you’ll end up thinking I’m either crazy or stupid or both.

• There’s a kid about my age living in an old workmen’s shed over my back fence, and the only other person who knows this is Roxy Minto, a girl I have more or less just met.

• The kid has just seen his house burn to ashes and lost his mother in the fire and is—according to Roxy, who sounds like she knows what she’s talking about—suffering from PT-something-or-other, which is a fragile mental state.

• He has a badly burnt arm that should probably have hospital treatment, which he absolutely refuses.

• He speaks weirdly, with a strange accent that I can’t identify.

• He has just begged me (backed up with vague threats) to keep all of this secret.

And I have agreed.

“Please, I am beseeching you” is what he said.

How much longer could I keep the secret? Was it even right to do so? The police were searching for him, so would I get into trouble if I said nothing?

All of this—and about a trillion other things—was going through my head as I snuck about the house at midnight, finding stuff for Alfie. I had unpacked a bunch of camping gear a couple of days ago, so I easily found a sleeping bag in the cupboard on the landing. I figured he might like an airbed as well, so I was holding these two items and heading downstairs when the door to what would be my room opened and Jasper came out in his pajamas and stood in the dim light.

“All right, son,” he half whispered blearily. “Just heading to the john. Old man’s bladder.”

Thanks for the information, I thought, hoping he’d just walk past me and ignore the fact that I was two steps down the stairs with a sleeping bag and an airbed.

Fat chance.

“What the blazes are you doing with all that?” he said, scratching his beard.

Quick, Aidan. Think on your feet.

“Ah…I was having trouble sleeping, and…and I thought, erm…I’d try sleeping downstairs. New house. Not used to it.” More unconvincing lies.

He said nothing, but looked me up and down before shuffling off to the bathroom.

He hadn’t believed me. I had my hoodie on over my pajamas, and outdoor shoes.

Not knowing was agony. Why hadn’t he said anything more? Was he half asleep? Did he not care? I decided it was the last one: he’d never shown much interest in me, so why start now? That’s what I told myself, anyhow, as I quickly scooted down the back garden, through the gap in the fence, and handed the stuff to a grateful Alfie. I’d even found a tin of tuna, which I thought was a good substitute for crab.

Roxy had already delivered some food, and promised to bring some fresh dressings in the morning, so it was just Alfie and me.

He looked at me with his pale, red-rimmed eyes. “Thank you,” he said, “very sincerely.” Then he added, “Pal.”

Just that. “Pal.” It was as if he’d never said it before. He didn’t toss off the word casually like people normally do—you know, “Hey there, pal!”—although around here you didn’t hear it so much. It was like he’d picked it up and was practicing it for the first time, enunciating it clearly as he did with lots of words.

Then he smiled, and despite his shocking teeth there was a warmth that I felt all the way through me. Then the smile slowly faded, to be replaced by a serious stare, and he said, “I am relying on you.”

I turned to go. “Aidan,” he said softly.

“Yes?”

“There is something I need to tell you. But you may not believe me.”

So now there’s another thing to add to the list of things that will make you think I’m stupid, crazy, or both.

He reckons he’s a thousand years old.