He wasn’t the only one thinking this way. It seemed that the whole forest around him was also crying out for water. It had struggled for too long without a drop of rain in this scorching summer. For days Rascal had thought that the drought would end, but somehow he always seemed to run ahead of the bank of clouds to the east.

      The evidence of the dry season was all around Rascal in the pale colours of the foliage. The lower branches of the trees were a dusty grey and the grasses and brush were more a washed-out yellow than a healthy green. Shrivelled brown leaves crackled beneath the dog’s feet and brittle pine needles dug into the pads on his paws.

      As he neared the ridge that ran along the top of this hill, he heard a sound above the noise of the wind. It was human voices, laughing. He could also hear the low crackle of a campfire and the smell of roasted meat.

      Soon Rascal could see four people – two women and two men, all in their early twenties – sitting outside their badly pitched tents, which flapped precariously in the wind. One of the men was prodding a long stick into the campfire. Several objects wrapped in tinfoil sat in the fire.

      ‘Don’t think these potatoes are done yet,’ said the man.

      No one seemed to mind. They were all finishing off hamburgers which had also been cooked