As I skied, I suddenly became aware of a big hare hopping along in the light snow: It stopped, sat back on its hind legs, pricked up its ears, looked at me, and then hopped on again.

With a bullet in his arm, he zigzagged away, missing by inches the car that was blocking the road.

At 8 pm on 5 January 1985, in his mother's arms, David stopped breathing.