Chapter 11. Old Friends

CHAPTER 11

Old Friends

By the light of the pixie dust sparking in his hand, Peter navigated them through the woods. He told her they couldn’t stay any longer, in case the shadow came back. Wendy would’ve fought him, but he made a good point—they would be blindly searching the woods. Wendy’s body was so heavy and stiff with grief and exhaustion, she simply didn’t have enough fight left to object further. It took every ounce of energy she had left to walk back to her house.

Peter led the way, and, though it bruised her pride, Wendy held on to his arm as they wove between trees and ducked under branches. She had a hard time looking at where she was going. Her eyes kept getting drawn to the pixie dust in Peter’s hand.

The small flecks of light leapt and bounced on his skin. They looked like they were dancing, or shaking with welled-up excitement. It reminded her of how Michael often looked, sitting in bed and squirming with glee when she began telling a story before bed.

The light danced on Peter’s face, casting a warm glow across his cheekbones and the tip of his nose and sparkling in his already bright eyes. Some shot up higher into the air, making corkscrew swirls before fizzling out, like embers popping in a bonfire, but with more life. Wendy wondered if they tickled his hand.

The woods no longer whispered, but Wendy still felt like they were being watched. After what seemed like ages, they hopped the fence into her backyard. Just as she was wondering what he would do with the pixie dust, Peter simply clapped his hands and the lights went out.

Wendy didn’t want to be near the woods any longer. The crushing sense of loss threatened to pull her down a path she tried hard to stay away from.

With some coaxing, she was able to talk Peter into coming inside.

Mr. Darling wasn’t sleeping in the living room anymore, and, after checking that his car was gone, Wendy assumed her dad had gone to the store or something. He never left notes about where he went, so she could only guess when he’d be back. Either way, she knew she would be in trouble when he did. She’d told him she wouldn’t be out past dark.

But there were more pressing matters at hand.

“Pixie dust,” Wendy repeated, wiping her nose off on the back of her hand.

Peter nodded, drumming his fingers on the counter. “Yup.”

Standing in her kitchen, leaning against the counter, it struck her how weird this all was. She believed him now, that he was Peter Pan—her Peter—because how else could she explain what had just happened? She kept catching herself openly staring at him.

Peter Pan was in her kitchen. To her annoyance, she felt more nervous now, like she was meeting her favorite singer.

Under the fluorescent lights, she could see how much of a mess Peter was.

He’d found a new set of clothes again. This time, it was a pair of faded jeans with a hole in the left knee and a dark green T-shirt. She wondered where he had gotten them. Maybe he’d stolen them from someone’s backyard or nicked them from a lost and found.

Peter’s face was flushed and had a couple of small cuts. His hair stuck out in disheveled tufts and dirt was smeared across his cheek. Wendy was certain she didn’t look much better. Her own hands were filthy.

She quickly walked to the sink and ran her hands under hot water.

“As in the stuff that makes you fly?” she continued. In the stories her mom had passed down, Peter used pixie dust from the fairies in Neverland to help himself and the lost kids fly.

“It’s supposed to, yeah,” he said, lightly touching a cut on his temple that was caked in dried blood. He winced. A branch must have scratched him. “Usually, I don’t even need it, but ever since I brought you to Neverland…” Peter glanced away and toyed with the lighthouse-shaped pepper shaker by the stove. “I have to use a bunch of it just to get off the ground.” His brow furrowed, his expression pinched, as he ran his finger around the spiral base of the shaker.

Wendy squeezed the dish towel she was using to dry her hands and ran a corner of it under warm water. “So, what, do you just keep pixie dust in your pocket?” she asked.

Peter moved to the fridge and began rearranging the magnets. “What? No!” He chuckled as he examined a Fort Stevens State Park one. “I don’t need pixie dust—or, I mean, pixie dust is a part of me. I’m made up of it, I guess?” Peter frowned and scratched his chin.

Apparently he hadn’t put much thought into it, either.

He tried again. “It’s like—it’s like it’s already in my veins, you know?”

Wendy nodded slightly when he turned to her for confirmation. “And the sword?”

“I can conjure it up with pixie dust,” Peter said. “It’s a way to focus my magic and defend myself and the lost kids.”

Wendy frowned. “From what?”

Peter shrugged and snatched a red apple from the bowl on the counter. “I don’t know … stuff.”

“Stuff?” Wendy repeated, annoyed.

Seeing that she wasn’t going to let it go without some kind of answer, Peter huffed. “Like keeping bad stuff away—like bad thoughts,” he said, eyes following the apple as he tossed it between his hands. “Lost kids’ bad thoughts can manifest as dark things on the island, like huge spiders, or killer hippos, or—”

“Pirates?” She said the word without even thinking.

Peter caught the apple out of the air and stared at Wendy. The intense look in his eyes made Wendy shift uncomfortably.

After being found in the woods, Wendy remembered, she’d had nightmares for months about being chased by a pirate captain, cloaked in bright red with a black beard, who always wielded a silver pistol. She would wake up in the middle of the night sobbing until her mother could coax her down.

Had that pirate been the bad thought that had chased her in Neverland?

Finally, Peter cleared his throat. “Yeah, like pirates.” He slowly turned the apple over and over in his hands as he spoke. “The sword is how I protect the lost kids and keep those manifestations of their bad thoughts at bay.”

“Can you turn it into something else?” Wendy wondered, picturing the glowing sword again. “Like a net?”

“I mean, I could.” Peter’s lips curled into a grin. “But a sword is just so much cooler.”

A surprised laugh bubbled in Wendy’s throat.

“And way more fun,” he added.

Wendy rolled her eyes but couldn’t help smiling. “Yeah, okay.”

“Pixie dust is my magic,” Peter continued, getting back on point. “It’s how I fly, how I take care of the lost kids, how I stay young—” Peter looked down at himself. “Or used to, anyway.” His shoulders slumped. “I can feel myself getting weaker, like my magic is just draining out of me, you know?” Peter set down the apple and approached Wendy. “Getting rid of that stuff that was trying to take you used up a lot. If we don’t get my shadow back soon, I have no idea what will happen, but it won’t be good.”

Wendy exhaled a deep sigh. She knew this was a problem, but she had no idea how to fix it.

Peter stared at her with his big eyes, as if waiting for her to come up with a solution to fix all their problems, but how could she do that? She could barely understand what he was telling her to begin with and she could barely take care of herself. She couldn’t help her brothers, so how was she supposed to help him?

Wendy stepped forward, closing the distance between them. “Here, let me clean that,” she said, holding up the damp cloth. At least the cut was something she could fix.

Peter squinted at her and leaned away.

“It’s not going to hurt, you big baby,” she said with mild exasperation.

“I’m not a baby,” Peter grumbled petulantly, but he remained still.

Wendy did her best to ignore the flutter of nerves through her entire body, being this close to him. Was there anyone else in the world who’d found out their imaginary friend was real?

Wendy pressed the cloth to his temple and Peter winced. He sucked in a sharp breath. “That stings!” he hissed, his jaw muscles flexing.

“Don’t be so dramatic,” she grumbled. Peter’s face scrunched up, but he let her gently pat the cut until the blood was gone, only leaving a small red line. “There,” Wendy said before retreating back to the other side of the kitchen. She yanked open the junk drawer and sifted through old scissors, expired coupons, and chip clips before she found a small red sewing kit.

“What’s that for?” Peter balked as if she were brandishing some sort of weapon.

“For the hole in your jeans,” Wendy said, gesturing to his torn knee.

He only looked slightly less worried.

“Just sit, would you?” she said, placing a hand on the counter.

Peter gave her a dubious look before perching himself on the edge of the cool tile. “Okay, but be careful; don’t stab me,” he instructed.

“Then don’t fidget,” Wendy told him. His knee stopped bouncing, and Wendy got to work cinching the frayed material back together with deft fingers as well as she could.

Peter probed the cut on his temple, flinching. “I need to save my energy and not use my magic for stuff like flying, you know? I need it to fight off the shadow. Pixie dust is its opposite.” Peter gestured, as if weighing two things in his hands.

“Shadows are made up of darkness. They feed off of sadness and despair. They manifest what you’re most scared of and use it as a weapon to feed off your fear. That’s why it’s stealing all those kids.” He dropped his hands and they hung heavy at his sides. “It’s collecting them and using their fear as a source of energy. They’re making it stronger.”

“That’s … terrifying,” Wendy breathed. Her eyes flickered away from her work toward the back door. Somewhere, deep in the woods, there were kids who were scared and alone, being tormented by the shadow.

“That’s why we need pixie dust to fight the shadow,” Peter continued. “It’s made from light and laughter and joy. That’s why when you use pixie dust and think of good things—happy things—it makes you light enough to fly. That’s why I’m the only one who can fight it. I can use my light against my shadow and weaken it enough to capture it, and you can reattach it like you did before.”

“That was your shadow, then?” Wendy looped the end of the thread, tying it off securely. “That took Alex and attacked me?” She couldn’t explain with logic what had happened to her in the woods just now, and that in and of itself was terrifying to realize.

“Yes.” Peter rubbed his eyes. “The stronger it gets, the weaker I get. I can feel the magic bleeding out of me.” He looked so tired and defeated. It only made her more worried.

As she tugged the seam to test her work—it was good enough to hold together for now—a thought occurred to her. “The woods.” Heat clawed up her neck. Wendy put the needle and thread away and left the kit on the counter. “Is that why it’s keeping them there—the missing kids and my brothers? Because of me?”

Wendy was terrified of the woods and the shadow was using it against her. It had lured her in there to taunt her with Alex, with the promise of finding her brothers, just to feed off her fear. It was her fault. It was all her fault. Wendy raked her fingers through her hair. “But why? Why my brothers? Why me?”

“I don’t know,” Peter murmured quietly, thumbing the stitches on the knee of his jeans. “All I know is you’re the only one who can help me catch my shadow and put it back.” He looked … not good. His tan skin was paler than normal. Puffy bags were starting to form under his eyes. He was missing his usual spark. The change was unsettling.

Wendy wondered when was the last time he’d gotten some rest and something to eat.

“If we can’t stop it, what will happen?” she asked. “To the kids? My brothers?”

Peter shrugged and stared at the floor. It pained her to see him like this. It pulled at something in her chest. At the same time, she was frustrated with him. If she was going to help him, she needed more guidance and answers. She couldn’t just magically solve this mystery on her own. Those kids needed her and Peter—they had to find and rescue them. She needed to see her brothers again, to bring them back.

“Peter…” Wendy hesitated, scared of the answer she might get. “What will happen if you keep getting weaker, and it keeps getting stronger?”

Peter looked up and watched her for a moment. She could see him thinking. Physically, he was so young, even if he was growing older. But his intense eyes felt like they held the age of the galaxies swirling behind them. He was a star locked inside a boy’s body.

Peter shrugged again. “Nothing good.” He tried to conjure up a smile, but it was nothing compared to its brilliance when he really meant it. “So we can’t let that happen.”

Wendy pressed her fingers to her mouth and tried to think.

“We need to call the police. We need their help,” Wendy finally said. She couldn’t believe she was even considering it, but where else could they turn for help?

Peter arched an eyebrow, shaking his head. “Wendy, you barely believe me, do you really think a bunch of grown-ups are going to believe a word of this?” he asked. “They’ll lock me up and throw away the key!” He scowled. She had hit a nerve. “They can’t help us.”

“Then we need to at least tell them about Alex!” Wendy pulled her phone out of her back pocket. Her mind raced, thoughts tumbling over one another. She needed to do something. She needed to come up with some immediate solutions to these daunting and insurmountable tasks.

“They need to know he’s missing—his parents need to know! At least then people can be on the lookout for him,” she insisted. Wendy paced back and forth, tightly gripping the phone. “I—I don’t know what I’ll say, how I know he’s gone missing,” she mused. “I can just make something up—”

Wendy’s cell phone lit up. An AMBER alert with Alex’s name filled the screen.

“Too late,” Wendy said. Peter leaned over to give it a look. “They already know.” Wendy snatched the remote from the counter and turned on the TV. Sure enough, it was on the news, too. Alex’s face smiled at her from the corner of the screen. In the center, Detective James stood in the middle of a street. Bright lights from news cameras lit up his face, causing him to squint.

“Mrs. Forestay witnessed Alex being taken from their backyard this evening, but didn’t get a good enough look at the abductor to provide a description,” Detective James said.

Guilt swarmed inside Wendy.

“I heard voices when I was in the woods,” Wendy said, turning back to Peter. “I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but they were definitely kids. I couldn’t see them but it felt like they were right there, just out of sight.” Her skin crawled as she thought about the voices, the breathing, the footsteps. “That’s gotta be where it’s hiding.”

“That’s where I had tracked it to, when you found me in the road,” Peter said, walking to stand next to her. His shoulder lightly brushed against hers. “After what you saw, I think that’s a pretty safe bet.”

“Do the police know that?” Wendy wondered as she watched Detective James talk about a special hotline the police department had set up for anyone who had any information about the missing children. “Should we tell them?” she asked, looking up at Peter.

His jaw was tight. “Grown-ups can be slow at figuring stuff out,” Peter said flatly. There was that disdainful tone that always crept into his voice when he talked about adults. “But they’re bound to put it together sooner or later.”

Wendy chewed on her bottom lip. She felt compelled to call the police about the woods, but how would she explain herself? The detectives were already looking at her for answers—they suspected her of lying or holding back something. That was why they showed up at her house to begin with. If she talked to them and they started investigating her more, if they started searching the woods, would they find Peter? And how would they explain him and his connection to all of this?

“They’re going to search the woods,” Wendy said, because of course they would. “They’ll find the hunting shack you’re staying in. They could find you, Peter.”

Peter, who had been scuffing the toe of his shoe on the floor, froze. Apparently he hadn’t considered that, either. He tipped his head back and let out a halfhearted laugh. “I guess we better hurry then,” he said, looking down at her with a sad grin.

Wendy pressed her hands against her abdomen. She felt like she was going to be sick.

In the living room, the view of Detective James changed on the television, catching her attention. It was a drawing of another missing person.

“Oh no,” Wendy groaned.

Detective James spoke: “We have also been alerted to another child who went missing from the hospital the day before yesterday. The boy was originally found unconscious on Williamsport Road but went missing shortly after being brought to the hospital for treatment. His name and whereabouts are unknown, but we have reason to believe he is connected to the string of local disappearances,” he went on.

Wendy’s eyes grew wide. Reason to believe he is connected to the string of local disappearances?

“What’s wrong?” Peter asked. He stepped closer, peering at her carefully. “You look like you’re going to barf.”

“If they think you have something to do with the missing kids,” Wendy said, the panic rising in her throat pushing the words out rapidly, “and they think you have something to do with what happened to me and my brothers, then that means that they think I have something to do with it, too!”

Peter blinked, but then everything seemed to click into place. “Oh,” Peter said with a cringe. “Oops…”

What could she possibly tell the police? Yes, detective, my brothers and I actually ran off to a magical island in the sky called Neverland. They were kidnapped by an evil shadow, but a magical boy saved me and brought me back home! Oh, and all those kids that have gone missing? Yes, well, the shadow got them, too, and now it’s up to me and the magical boy to get them back!

“You’re right,” Wendy said, staring unblinkingly at the TV. “I might barf.”

Peter stepped back.

A composite sketch took over the screen.

It was a drawing of Peter. Not a very good one, but definitely him nonetheless. His nose was pretty accurate, and they got his ears right, including the way they pointed and sort of stuck out. But his cheeks and jaw in the picture were too round and young looking. It was a sketch of how Peter had looked when she’d found him in the street—but, looking at him now, as he leaned across the counter and intently stared at the TV, it was clear to Wendy that he was still aging quickly.

And the eyes, of course, didn’t do his real ones any justice.

Detective James continued on in the background: “He has been described as having brown hair, blue eyes, and standing at about five foot five. He’s guessed to be between the ages of twelve and fourteen and may be confused or disoriented. If seen, please call—”

Wendy inspected Peter. She was five foot five and, standing next to Peter in the kitchen, he was definitely a good few inches taller than her. She looked at the screen again. Wendy remembered how he had looked when she first found him in the middle of the road. But now? He was definitely taller, and his cheeks weren’t round anymore. Still covered in freckles, they sloped over more defined cheekbones and blended into his more defined jawline. Had he really aged that much in just a couple of days?

“Why are you staring at me like that?” Peter asked, squinting as he frowned at her.

“I’m not staring at you,” Wendy said, cheeks growing hot as she gave his shoulder a shove. “I guess if anything, losing your magic is useful, since the aging will make it harder for people to recognize you from the ER,” she said in an attempt to find a silver lining.

“Yeah, but not useful in getting my shadow back.” Peter scowled. “The weaker my magic gets, the more I age. I’m not supposed to grow up, Wendy. If we can’t fix me soon…” Peter looked lost for words. “I don’t know what’ll happen, but those kids will be lost for good.”

“And so will my brothers,” Wendy said.

Peter dug the palms of his hands into his eyes.

The sound of a key sliding into the front door lock made Wendy nearly jump out of her skin.

“Crap!” she hissed, immediately grabbing Peter’s arm and giving it a yank.

“Ouch! What?!”

“Shh! Someone’s home! My dad will freak out if he sees you!” Wendy pulled Peter to the sliding glass doors that led to the backyard.

Oh, God, oh no, she needed to get Peter out of the house. If her dad found them, she wouldn’t be the only one in trouble. The lock clicked and the front door began to creak open. “You need to leave, now, out the back door!” She pushed against him, but Peter didn’t budge.

“Wendy?” Her mother’s tired voice drifted in from the living room. “Is that you?”

“Go!” Wendy pleaded as quietly as she could, but Peter wasn’t even looking at her anymore.

All of his focus had turned to the sound of her mother’s voice, his face suddenly very alert. Wendy squeezed his arm in a silent plea, but it was no use. He balanced on the balls of his feet, peering in the direction of the living room like a fox trying to spot a bird. There was something in his eyes, an intensity in his face, but Wendy couldn’t place it. What was he doing? If he didn’t move, she—

Mrs. Darling rounded the corner and stepped into the kitchen.

“Uh, hey, Mom!” Wendy chirped, trying to sound casual, but the truth was that she never had company over, except for Jordan.

Peter retreated a few quick steps back to Wendy’s side. He clasped his hands behind his back.

Wendy looked up at him, surprised by his sudden strange behavior.

Mrs. Darling was in her usual blue scrubs, her hair tied up in a messy bun on top of her head. She was wearing her glasses, but Wendy could still see the dark circles under her eyes.

“Oh, you have company,” she said, a pleasant but tired smile on her face as she turned to Peter. However, when she saw him, she faltered.

Mrs. Darling’s brown eyes were suddenly wider and more alert than Wendy had seen them in ages. Her hand moved to the base of her throat. Her mouth formed a small O in silent—what was it? Surprise?

Peter stood still, his head cocked to the side curiously.

“Er, Mom?” Wendy asked quietly. Had her mom seen Peter in the hospital? Was that why she was looking at him like that? Why was Peter acting so weird all of a sudden? The quiet intensity of the situation made her feel as if she were interrupting a private moment. “Are you okay?”

“Hmm? Oh, yes—I’m fine,” Mrs. Darling said. That seemed to break her out of her trance, but she still continued to stare at Peter. Wendy could feel an odd energy hanging in the air between them. Mrs. Darling squinted, delicate wrinkles forming at the corners of her eyes as she peered at him through her glasses. “I’m sorry, have we met before?” Mrs. Darling asked Peter.

Before he could open his mouth, Wendy cut in. “No!” she practically shouted. She cleared her throat and lowered her voice. “I mean, no. This is—uh—Barry,” she lied.

“Do you go to school with Wendy?” Mrs. Darling pressed. “You look so familiar—”

“Nope!” Wendy answered again. “He’s new—from out of town—visiting family—just for the summer!” She was talking way too fast. And way too loud. “We just kinda ran into each other downtown, so I thought I’d show him around,” Wendy finished, twisting her hands in the air as she tried to come up with a logical explanation.

Wendy wasn’t very good at making up lies on the spot, but she hoped it was convincing enough. Either way, her mom didn’t seem to be paying enough attention to notice.

“It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Darling,” Peter finally said. He leaned forward in a strange little half bow, one hand pressed to his chest, before straightening back up again. He smiled at her, deep dimples cutting into his cheeks. That smile of his was dazzling. It made you feel like it was meant only for you, and he gave it to her mother.

A laugh bubbled past Mrs. Darling’s lips. “It’s nice to meet you too, Barry,” she replied, patting at her messy hair.

It was strange seeing her mother interact with Peter. It made something in her ache. She hadn’t seen her mom smile or laugh like that in ages. Five years ago, when Wendy was finally able to go home, she’d spent all day trying to come up with ways to cheer her mom up with drawings, beaded necklaces she made from magazine scraps, and jokes. Wendy kept a tally of how many times she could get her mother to smile. When Wendy had told her therapist about the tallies, coincidentally, Mrs. Darling started smiling more. But it was always a forced one that didn’t reach her eyes.

Wendy couldn’t help feeling a bit jealous at how Peter had so easily gotten something she coveted. At the same time, Peter also felt like her secret, her own piece of magic, but there was obviously something shared between the two of them.

“Do you want to stay for dinner?” Mrs. Darling asked as she pushed some stray hair out of her face. “I’m not sure what we have in the house, but I could order some takeout—”

“Nooo, no, that’s okay,” Wendy interrupted, waving a hand and laughing nervously. “Barry has to go home, don’t you, Barry?”

“Uh,” Peter replied unintelligibly.

Wendy took hold of his bicep and gave it a squeeze.

“Yeah, I guess I do,” he finished. He looked disappointed, but Wendy didn’t care. She needed to get him out of there. She didn’t have enough of her wits about her to keep up the charade, and Peter was proving to be entirely useless.

“Oh.” Mrs. Darling’s face fell. “Well, would you at least like a ride home? It’s dangerous to be out by yourself this time of night, what with everything that’s going on.”

Peter looked at Wendy—his eyebrows arched expectantly, waiting for her to provide him with his answer.

“That’s okay, Mom. He lives super close, don’t you, Barry?” Wendy said.

Peter nodded vigorously. “Yes, super close.”

Now, Wendy could see he was trying not to laugh at her. She wanted to shove him but refrained.

“Okay, well, if you’re sure,” Mrs. Darling said, but Wendy was already pushing Peter toward the front door.

“Just going to walk him to the porch!” Wendy called over her shoulder. She pulled open the front door. As Peter turned to wave good-bye to her mom, Wendy placed both of her hands against his back and pushed him out.

Outside, everything was quiet except for the sound of traffic filtering down from the main road.

Wendy shut the door behind her and let out a long sigh of relief. “That was close,” she said, pressing her palm against her forehead as she willed her heartbeat to slow down. They were lucky it hadn’t been her father, but still, running into her mother was bad enough. Peter needed to keep a low profile—the fewer people to see him, the better.

Peter didn’t say anything. He stared at the closed door, just above her shoulder. His eyebrows pinched together and his jaw moved like he was chewing on the inside of his cheek.

Wendy’s thoughts immediately went to Peter’s interaction with her mother. How curious Peter was, how lost in memory her mother seemed to be. It was like overhearing a private conversation. Wendy folded her arms and leaned back against the door. “Did you know my mom? When she was younger?” she asked quietly as she watched him.

Peter nodded. “Yeah, those stories she used to tell you weren’t just stories. Better sword fighter than you, in fact,” Peter added with a short laugh, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “I mean, she doesn’t remember it now, obviously.” He shrugged his shoulders like it was nothing, but there was a clear tone of hurt in his voice. “But that’s what happens when you grow up—you forget about the magic you’ve seen.”

Wendy idly wondered what it was like to be Peter, to meet people when they were young and could still believe in magic. To take them on adventures, to places they could never imagine in their wildest dreams, only to be forgotten with time and age. It must be a lonely existence …

Peter nodded at Wendy. “That’s probably why you forgot. When you turned thirteen, you weren’t a kid anymore, so when I rescued you and brought you back to the woods, you forgot about Neverland … and me.”

Wendy bit her lip. Did that explain why she couldn’t remember what had happened to her during those six months?

“Do you think that’s why things started going wrong in Neverland?” Wendy asked.

Peter frowned and shook his head slightly, not understanding the question.

“I turned thirteen the day you brought me back, right? What if all the weird things that started to happen on the island were because I was too old? If getting older means losing magic, maybe me being there was what started all the problems?”

“It might have,” Peter considered hesitantly. “But that still doesn’t explain me and my shadow. You being too old and defying the rules of Neverland could’ve caused the animals and the fairies to start acting strangely, sure, but why would I start getting older and losing my magic?” he asked.

Wendy sighed and shrugged. “I don’t know,” she told him. “But it’s a start.” She shivered. A breeze was starting to pick up. “Are you okay to get back to the hunting shack?” she asked.

Now, more than ever, she was completely terrified by the prospect of being in the woods, especially alone at night. She didn’t like the idea of Peter being in them, either. What if something happened and the shadow tried to go after him next? She wanted to ask him to stay, but the words caught in her throat.

Peter laughed and cocked an eyebrow at her. “Uh, yeah. Thanks, Mom, but I can take care of myself.”

Wendy scowled and nudged her elbow into his side. “Oh, shut up. When can I see you tomorrow? We need to come up with a game plan. Should we meet up somewhere?” she asked. This would be a lot easier if he were a normal teenager and had a cell phone.

“Don’t worry,” Peter replied. He wiggled his eyebrows and dropped his voice to an ominous tone. “I’ll find you when the time comes.”

Wendy narrowed her eyes at him. “Wait, seriously?”

Peter laughed, a large grin cracking across his face, showing off the small chip in his tooth. It was the first genuine smile she’d seen on him today that wasn’t edged with worry or apprehension. It was a welcome relief.

“Uh, no, actually,” he said, rocking on the balls of his feet, satisfied with himself for being so clever. “You should probably tell me when and where to meet you.”

Wendy rolled her eyes but couldn’t hide the smile tugging at her lips. “Just meet me at the corner of my street by the orange house at noon tomorrow, okay?”

“Aye aye, captain,” Peter replied with a sweeping salute. He jumped off the porch and started walking across the yard.

As she watched his retreating back, Wendy couldn’t help herself. “Be careful going into the woods, okay?” she called after him as quietly as possible.

Peter turned around and gave her an amused smirk. “You know, if you keep worrying like that you’re going to give yourself wrinkles,” he said, walking backward as he reached the driveway. “Just there.” He tapped his finger on the middle of his forehead.

Wendy shook her head, conjuring up her best look of disdain. “Good night, Peter,” she told him.

“Sweet dreams, Wendy.”

She watched as he turned back around and walked down the street. The sound of crickets drifted in his wake.

---

When she went back inside, Mrs. Darling was standing in front of the fridge. “How do leftovers sound?” her mother asked. Mrs. Darling pulled out a Tupperware full of cheesy chicken and rice Wendy had made for dinner a couple of nights before.

“Sounds good to me,” Wendy said as she took a seat at the table. Her shins already ached from running through the woods. She felt like she was still covered in dirt and ashes. She really needed to get into the shower and scrub herself clean, but at the moment, walking up the stairs seemed daunting and the promise of melted cheese made her stomach growl.

She realized her mother was watching her, but Mrs. Darling’s eyes flitted away when Wendy looked up and she busied herself with pulling out a pair of forks.

Wendy thought about what Peter had said. How, once upon a time, her mother had known Peter, had even been a swordfighter. The idea seemed preposterous now, with her messy hair, medical scrubs, and perpetually tired smile.

Even before Wendy and her brothers had gone missing, her mother had always seemed like the perfect lady to Wendy. Her hair had always been long and fell down her back in waves. Wendy had been in love with those silky locks and used to run her fingers through them over and over when she was upset and being held. She used to have such a graceful walk, too, like a ballerina. And when she had told them stories, her mother’s voice was a gentle tune, like she was singing.

Those were the only two versions of her mother Wendy knew. The idea of her being a little girl, running around with Peter Pan and brandishing a sword, seemed impossible.

But a lot of things that seemed impossible were turning out to be very real lately.

“So, Barry seems nice?” Her mother’s question brought Wendy out of her thoughts.

“Hmm? Oh, yeah, he’s nice,” Wendy said, caught off guard.

“You’ve never brought a boy over before. Are you two…” Mrs. Darling started slowly, casting Wendy a furtive glance, “dating?”

“What?” Wendy almost shouted. “No—we—NO, definitely not,” she stammered, completely flustered. “I only just met him the other day!” She could feel her cheeks turn red.

Oh, God, they weren’t going to have that conversation, were they?

“Okay, okay.” Mrs. Darling held her hands up in surrender. “I was only asking,” she said, an amused look on her face. As she started the microwave, Wendy tried to melt into her chair. “You just seemed nervous when I walked in on you two—”

Wendy slapped her hand on her forehead. “You didn’t walk in on us. We weren’t doing anything—”

“And you kept touching his arm and giving him this look,” Mrs. Darling continued. She was nearly smiling—it was almost there, hiding in the right-hand corner of her mouth.

Wendy groaned and buried her face in her hands. She had only been touching him because she had been trying to get him out of the house! And what look on her face was her mother even talking about? The only look she could have possibly been making was of a girl on the brink of panic! Wendy dropped her hands to the table. “Trust me, there is nothing going on with me and P—between the two of us.”

Mrs. Darling walked over and set a paper plate of chicken and rice in front of Wendy, along with a glass of water. “Well, he seems very nice either way,” Mrs. Darling said as she walked back to the kitchen.

Wendy made a huffing noise as she stabbed her fork into a piece of chicken and popped it into her mouth. She wasn’t the best cook—nothing compared to what her mother used to make when she was little—but the chicken was seasoned with just enough spice, and the rice was gooey with cheese.

“He just seems so familiar, though,” Mrs. Darling continued. She frowned at her plate as she scooped up a portion. “Maybe I used to go to school with his father? Do they look very much alike?”

Wendy took another bite and shook her head. “No, like I said, they just moved here,” she said through a mouthful of food, “from Florida.” Wendy hated lying, mostly because she was terrible at it. “He just has one of those faces, I guess…”

Mrs. Darling nodded slowly, lost in thought.

It was then that Wendy noticed the TV was still on. “I guess you heard about Alex?” she ventured, staring down at her plate as she picked at her rice.

This refocused Mrs. Darling’s attention. Her delicate brows furrowed and a heavy sigh pulled down on her shoulders. “Yes,” she said. “The police were at the hospital all night, checking sign-in sheets and getting security camera footage.”

Wendy coughed. It felt like a piece of chicken had lodged itself in her throat. “Security cameras?” she repeated.

“Yes,” Mrs. Darling went on, not noticing Wendy’s sudden change in mood. “But they’re only positioned at the entrances, so I’m not sure what good they’ll do for the search.” She sighed and closed her eyes for a moment. “I guess they want to look for anyone suspicious, maybe anyone who might’ve followed him and his parents out of the hospital this afternoon.”

That probably should’ve relieved Wendy—at least there would be no footage of Peter interacting with her or Alex—but would the security cameras have caught him coming in or leaving? She’d never asked him how, exactly, he got in and out without anyone noticing. Would someone recognize him?

Mrs. Darling put the empty Tupperware into the sink but paused instead of joining Wendy at the table. “They’re looking for the boy from the hospital, too, who you found in the road,” she started hesitantly.

Oh no …

“They seem to think that this is all related somehow,” Mrs. Darling continued. “You haven’t seen him, have you?”

Wendy shook her head.

“Well, just keep an eye out. If you do, you call the police straightaway, okay?” Mrs. Darling twisted her wedding ring around her finger, something she did when she was anxious.

Wendy nodded. “Have they—the police, I mean—have they … told you and Dad anything new?”

Wendy watched as her mother’s eyes slid across the room to the door of her father’s study. “I’m not sure…” she said.

“Where is Dad?” Wendy asked.

Mrs. Darling sighed again. “After I was questioned at the hospital, they asked me about the night you went missing, too.” Wendy cringed at her mom’s avoidance of mentioning her brothers. “Then they called your father down to the station, too. He’s there now.” Maybe she could see the alarm in Wendy’s face because she quickly added, “But there shouldn’t be anything to worry about, they’re just trying to get as many details of that night as possible.”

She picked up her plate and sat down next to Wendy. “They’ll probably want to talk to you again,” she said, gently placing her hand on Wendy’s arm. “Who knows.” She stared down into her bowl of soup. “Maybe we’ll finally find out what happened…”

Wendy pushed her food away. “I think I’m going to head to bed now,” she said quietly as she stood up from her seat.

It was possible Wendy saw a flicker of disappointment cross her mother’s face, but she just gave her a small smile and nodded.

“Night, Mom,” Wendy said. She wanted to reach out and give her mother a hug, but she felt like she had forgotten what hugging looked like, or even where to put her arms. She picked up her plate with her half-eaten chicken instead.

“Good night, Wendy.”

Wendy walked up to the second floor and at the top, as always, she was met with the door to her old room. She stood there for a moment, plate in hand, and stared at the handle. Even though John and Michael weren’t here, it still felt like she could open the door and there they would be, sitting on her bed, riffling through her art supplies so they could make a treasure map or draw pictures of make-believe beasts.

She rested her hand on the doorknob. It felt like cold electricity under her fingertips.

If Peter was right, and they were able to stop his shadow, she would finally get her brothers back.

A surge of energy ran from her core and down her arm to her hand. For the first time in five years, Wendy gripped the doorknob and gave it a turn.

But it was locked.

Deflated, Wendy’s hand fell back to her side. Of course it was locked. How had she not predicted that? Her father had probably locked it up after she refused to go inside. It had probably stayed locked ever since.

Wendy rubbed her stinging eyes. Even though she was alone, she felt silly and embarrassed. Without a second glance at the door, Wendy turned and went to her bedroom. She left her dinner on her dresser, having lost her appetite completely. She needed to clean up, so she went into the bathroom and scrubbed away at her skin in the shower until the smell of dirt and ash was replaced with jasmine and green tea.

She changed into her oversized sleep shirt and turned on the fairy lights that twinkled around her window. But before she lay down in bed, Wendy paused. Ever since she had entered the woods earlier that night, she’d felt a heavy weight. Not only of the anxiety around keeping Peter a secret, or the responsibility of needing to stop the shadow so she could save her brothers, but something else. Something dark. She couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched.

Wendy looked out her window. The lights from the main part of town blinked lazily in the distance. For the first time all summer, she crawled up onto her bed, pulled her window shut, and locked it tight. It was still hot and humid, but she was willing to sleep uncomfortably warm if it meant not being worried that something would crawl in through her window while she slept.

She jerked her curtains shut and shoved the comforter off her bed, leaving only the white cotton sheets.

The acorn was still on her nightstand from where she had left it that morning. Taking it into her hand, Wendy leaned back against her pillows and gently rolled it between her fingers.

Even with the window shut and locked, and her curtains preventing anyone from possibly being able to look in, Wendy didn’t feel any better. It was like whatever was in the woods had attached itself to her back and was clawing its way into her skin, no matter how hard she tried to scrub it clean. Wendy shuddered and squeezed the acorn tight in her hand.

If she was going to get any sleep tonight, she needed a distraction.

Keeping the acorn in her fist, Wendy pulled out the notebook from her bedside drawer, a red Sharpie, and a stack of pamphlets. The university had sent her a large manila envelope full of information on housing and academics.

Jordan had convinced Wendy to sign up for the health sciences housing. Jordan knew what she wanted to do and was already reaching out to premed students with questions.

Wendy wished she had that confidence.

Chewing on the cap of the red marker, Wendy flipped to the page of her bullet journal saved with a ribbon. Across the top center of the page she had written Nursing, and on the next several pages were bulleted lists, dates, and calendars. After poring over the university website’s academics section, she had mocked up an entire four years’ worth of classes to graduate with a nursing degree. Wendy had used her collection of fine-tip Sharpies to meticulously map out potential schedules, all color coded with their respective credits. It had taken her weeks.

Everything was carefully laid out for her. If she followed these steps, she would have her nursing degree and be ready to enter the real world after graduation. She would have a steady job in a high-demand field.

But …

Wendy turned to a blank page. At the top in small, red letters she wrote Premed.

It was a crazy idea. Becoming a doctor took ages —four years of undergrad, four years of med school, and then a three-to-seven-year residency? That was a lot of time and a lot of money. She was relying mostly on grants and scholarships for college. How would she be able to afford going to med school?

Nursing was perfectly respectable. She’d earn a degree faster and make a decent living. Sometimes, she entertained the idea of becoming a doctor, specifically a pediatrician, but she was just toying with the idea. Realistically, it was too much of a risk and too big of a cost if she failed.

Being a pediatrician meant the wellness of children—their lives—would be in her hands. It made Wendy start to sweat just thinking about making the wrong decision, or messing up so colossally that she’d lose a patient. There was no way she could handle that sort of responsibility. She couldn’t even keep her brothers safe—how could anyone trust her with their children?

She pulled out the athletics brochure and busied her mind reading about the state-of-the-art training facilities on campus.

The acorn remained tight in her hand. I wish Peter were here, she found herself thinking as sleep began to lull her eyes closed. She would never admit it out loud, but he emitted a warmth that Wendy couldn’t help being drawn to, and she felt it when she was holding the acorn.