It was a warm, autumn evening in the valley we had recently come to know as home. The trees were dappled green and brown on all sides and a bubbling brook swept past to the east. A thin wisp of smoke rose up for the cooking fire of our encampment. This place had not been home for long and there was nowhere permanent to call our own but that would change, given time and a round stone to sharpen my wood axe. Suddenly there was a shout from the edge of our clearing. It was my son, Harry, no doubt back with some make-believe tale of dragons, knights and castles beyond our wildest dreams. This time, however, he looked different - shaken. As he moved away from the tree line it was obvious something was wrong. His movement was mechanical, he seemed unable to function normally. I ran to him. It wasn't until within 20 feet of him that I saw blood spattered across his clothes.