"Emmaline, my aunt's written from Wales. She's coming to get me later tonight and I'll be gone for a few days. It's my father's funeral in London. It's poor timing," he stammers, glancing at the red ticket. "But there's nothing to be done for it."
He takes a deep breath and then I understand. He thinks he will not see me again. He thinks the stillwaters will come for me.
"You think I'm going to die."
"No. No. I just..."
Yes. This is what he thinks.