It's twilight in the Yorkshire dales. A young man stands next to his father. They are surrounded by rolling hills that look gray in the dimness of early night. A cool breeze makes gentle waves in the leaves of a red beech. The young man is almost cold. Should have brought a jacket, he thinks.
Bats (or is it only one?) flitter around the young man and his father. They are so small and fragile. He can just make out the flap-flap-flap of their tiny wings as they skim over his head. He desperately wants to touch one of them, but he knows he can't. They're too fragile. If he tried to grab one, he would probably hurt it. And that would break his heart.
He is a little afraid.