Then there was a light. Just a trick at first—a blotch like when Simon sometimes rubbed his eyes too hard—but then it was real, a swinging, jittering yellow light. All that mattered was that Simon knew it was someone, and hit his hand quickly against the horn, hurting his cold fingers. He let the horn ring out, and the light started to swivel faster. Simon tried desperately to remember if his parents had taken a torch with them. Why would they, though, when it was still daylight when they left? Perhaps they had come back, he thought. Perhaps they had returned for a torch, and gone off again. But why wouldn’t they have woken him up? Maybe they were angry with him. Simon hit the horn again. The light was close now, and Simon tried to work out how many people there were.
He got out of the car and began walking towards the light. He wanted to shout out, but he couldn’t. It was his parents, he knew it now—they’d taken a torch and they were coming back. They were all going to get in the car and go to a nice hotel and stay there for the night and when they got up there would be a breakfast and Simon would ask for sausages because he liked them and his parents would probably let him have them even thought they didn’t usually …
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