I am a young child, maybe around two or three years old, and I am in a park. There are people around, but none with me. I take no notice of them anyway. I busy myself with climbing a low wall. I clasp the edge of the roughly hewn stone with my stubby fingers and reach a leg up to place my foot in one of the notches in the side. I try to heave myself up shakily, but my grip falters and I fall, but much before I hit the ground, I feel a steady palm against my back, gently pushing me upright. The hand guides me until I have scrambled up onto the wall. I sit with my tiny legs dangling over the edge and look around for my rescuer, but there is no one there.

I am seven, playing by myself in the woods. I skip along in the cool dimness under the trees, kicking at stones and twigs as I go. Suddenly I hear a flutter of wings and a series of high-pitched chirps somewhere overhead, and I halt. I search the branches above me for signs of movement, and find it. The tree seems easy enough to climb, and the branch low enough, so I set off up the trunk, my fingers, hands and feet now working with practiced ease. In no time at all, I am at eye level with the branch. Cautiously, I peep into the nest, trying my best not to make a sound. My face breaks into a smile as I gape in wonder... Two pink, featherless chicks with their beaks wide open, and the mother sparrow pecking at something in the opposite corner of the nest. A single, unbroken egg catches my eye, and I think I see it wobble, but the chicks keep moving in front of it. I strain for a closer look, my foot grazes across something slimy on the tree trunk, and I slip. A gentle pair of hands catches me and lowers me to the ground. I hear a quietly reprimanding "Jim". The voice is deep and soothing. I have not heard it before, but I know it. I spin around to catch a glimpse of my guardian, but all I get is a fleeting image of someone old and wise. I feel like he knows me. The voice echoes in my head, and with each thundering reverberation, it sounds less admonishing. "Jim"... The voice is layered with emotions I cannot yet begin to comprehend.

I am a teenager now. I am swimming towards the setting sun; the beach is fast receding behind my back; the ocean air is cool against my face. I close my eyes and smile. After a while, my limbs begin to ache, each breath becomes an unwanted strain, and a dull pounding begins in my chest, but I ignore it and continue swimming. I know I should turn back now, or I might not make it. My body is giving me all the warning signs, but something is spurring me on. Is it pride? Is it this swelling ego of mine that knows I can push myself harder and still come out on the other side? Or does this recklessness have its roots in the fact that I know he will come? Is it some sort of subconscious challenge? And am I challenging myself, or him?

Just as my body fails me, sure enough, a strong arm wraps itself around my chest and keeps me afloat. I let loose a bark of laughter, but it comes out as a sputtering gasp. I let myself go limp within his grasp and gaze bleary-eyed at the sun, now low over the horizon, as he swims me back to shore. "I knew you would come", I say breathlessly. All I feel in response is a quiet, seething anger. It burns through his skin into mine and I feel a sudden, searing pang of guilt, then everything goes black.

Later, I wake up alone on the sand. Stars twinkle in a clear, dark sky. I hear soft footsteps and I call out frantically, "Wait! Don't go!" My voice is low and hoarse. I manage to prop myself up on my elbows and peer around. Blurry in the faint starlight, I see a set of footprints leading away from my side. I am too weak to follow them. Even if I did, I know I would not find him. I flop back down on the sand and listen to the sound of the waves.

I am older, much older. I feel different. I feel like a better person. I try to move my arms and legs, but I can't. I am trapped beneath a jumble of twisted metal and rocks. I feel a trickle of moisture from a corner of my mouth. I taste blood. But I am not afraid. I know he will come. He always does. I hear the scuffling of feet against dry, rocky earth, and see a figure approaching. The figure begins to remove some of the rubble from above me. My vision is hazy, but I know it is not him. It does not feel like him. I should know. I've spent a lifetime in his presence. The man gazes down at me. He has a kind face, and is looking at me with compassion, and what is it, pity? Regret? I realize that he is unable to free me completely. I exchange a few words with him. I can't remember what we say, nor hear it, for that matter. It sounds muffled and faraway, but it feels like a goodbye. The voice I hear… is not his voice. I look up at this stranger and wonder where my saviour is. Where could he be? Why is he not by my side? Does this mean I should panic? I feel my life force ebbing away, but still, I am not afraid. Perhaps I shall see him when I wake up. My sight dims, flickers, goes out of focus, and I close my eyes. He will surely come.

I jolt upright, panting. The room is dark and the sheets are soaked. I am shivering in a cold sweat. That last dream felt real. I crawl back on the bed and lean on the headboard. I sit there for a long while, unmoving, till my breath slows down to normal. I know who he is. I see flashes of memory, untold instances where I have barged into trouble, unheeding of my own folly, but he pulls me out, dusts me off, and cleans up the mess. I was never alone.

I know who he is, and I am never taking him for granted again.