The boy had a schoolbag over his shoulders. The schoolbag looked familiar too, but he didn't remember it from the dream – he must have seen one like it somewhere else. This was all getting too strange. The dogs had resumed snuffling at the boy's pocket. He was struggling to keep them off.

"Hey," Matt said to the dogs. "Out! Come on." He led them out into the backyard and closed the door. Jac whimpered and scratched at the door, but he ignored her and came back into the kitchen.

"What's your name?" he said to the boy.

The boy just stared at him. Was he deaf? He murmured something in another language, and Matt heard the word nein. Wasn't that German for "no"? Matt wasn't good with languages.

"Nein?" he tried.

The boy nodded. "Nein," he said. "Woof." He broke out into a grin.

Matt laughed out loud. At the absurdity of it, mostly. "What's in your pocket?" he said, pointing.

The boy shook his head.

"Where did you come from?"

"From?" the boy said.

"Stay here," Matt said. He went back to his office for a notepad and pen. When he got back the boy was looking at the newspaper on the kitchen table. Matt sat down at the table next to him and drew a clumsy dog on the notepad. He had never been much good at drawing. "Nein?" he said when he had finished.

The boy nodded distractedly. He seemed at first more interested in the newspaper than in Matt's feeble attempts to communicate with him, but then he held out his hand for the pen, and wrote a word on the notepad, holding the pen awkwardly in his fist.

Nine

It was like a pre-schooler's attempt at writing. He had to be at least twelve. Had he never gone to school? Or was he disabled? But the boy in his dream had not been disabled.

The boy examined the pen from end to end, as if he had never seen one before. Then he went back to writing.

The Cat In The Hat

He put the pen down and looked questioningly up at Matt. Matt gave him an encouraging smile, but his head was spinning.

"What is your name?" Matt tried again.

"Is?" the boy said cautiously.

Matt wrote the question on the pad.

The boy's eyes lit up. "Ward," he said without hesitation.

Matt wondered how the boy could write English but not speak it. He was no expert on the subject, but surely this was not normal.

How old are you? he wrote.

The boy said something. He saw Matt didn't understand him, sighed impatiently (Matt laughed inwardly at that), and wrote thirteen on the notepad.

"Thirteen," Matt said.

"Churr-teen."

"Thurr," Matt said. "Thirteen."

"Thurr. Churteen."

In this slow way their conversation proceeded. Matt learned that the boy was from a place called Devil's Island. The island in Matt's dream had not had a name. It seemed to fit it though. It felt right. Just like Ward had seemed like just the right name for the boy. He already knew the lighthouse keeper's name – it had come to him that morning as he sat at his desk, just before the dogs' barking had broken his concentration. Jaggles. A suitably Dickensian name. But he didn't know the man's first name yet.

What is Jaggles' first name? he wrote.

The boy gave Matt a shocked look and shrank away. Matt immediately realised his mistake, for the boy had not mentioned Jaggles.

There was nothing for it but to come clean.

I dreamed about you last night, he wrote. I dreamed about the island and the lighthouse, and the lighthouse keeper.

Ward looked at this for a long time. Matt wondered if he was struggling to read it.

I don't understand, he wrote.

I don't either, Matt wrote.

Am I dreaming?

I don't know.

This is very strange.

I know.

Is Ward dreaming again? Dead? Something else?