Ben Smith

Doggerland Ben Smith

His father's breath had been loud in the small room. It had smelled smoky, or maybe more like dust. He had knotted and unknotted a strap on the bag he was holding - he must have been leaving to go out to the farm that day. 'I'll get out,' he'd said. 'I'll come back for you, ok?' The boy remembered that; had always remembered it. And, for a time, he'd believed it too.