Urquhart kneels down beside him and lifts the leg so he can look at the calf, but Moist can't, and briefly pokes the wound.

He reaches out for a pair of long tweezers, and pokes the wound again while holding Moist's foot. There is a short pull and twinge.

The, he lets go.

"There must have been a bit of hay left on that pitchfork," he says, holding up a tiny scrap of dry vegetable matter, perhaps a blade of very hard grass, or a fragment of a yarrow stalk, that he's pulled from one of the punctures. "That must have been it."