Amy Pond is seven years old.

She lies under the huge tree in the abandoned lot and stares up at the blue sky. Her arm is twisted at a weird angle, but she doesn't feel any pain, just a curious emptiness. Aunt Sharon is standing over her, yelling, but Amy can't hear her too well, like she's far away in a tunnel.

"Get some help!" The words her aunt is shrieking finally make their way into Amy's comprehension. The Ledworth butcher, Mr. Thorndyke, and the deputy policeman run over and stare down at her as if she's an insect specimen pinned to a board, before rushing away yelling something about the doctor.

Amy tries to get up, but her arm hurts, and her back hurts, and she sinks back down into the grass, her brain finally recalling the curious feeling of being high among the branches and suddenly finding herself pummeling through the air and onto the ground with a dull thud.

Now she's scared. She can't move, and Aunt Sharon is standing near her, crying, not saying anything at all. She closes her eyes.

"I'll stay with her if you want to go for help, Ma'am." The boy's voice is calm, polite, gentle. Amy feels calloused fingers lightly touch the palm of her uninjured hand.

"Don't move. It's better if you don't move." She looks up, and her eyes meet those of a very ordinary-looking boy a little older than she is.

"I'll be right back, Amelia," says Aunt Sharon, choking back tears.

Amy smiles at the boy, no longer afraid. "What's your name?"

"Rory."