Page 107 of Losing Wendy

When I arrive at the reaping tree, the Lost Boys are crowded together in a circle, packed shoulder to shoulder, the ones in the back pushing their way through the cracks between the taller boys, who take up the front.

Only John and Michael stand back, John holding Michael from behind as Michael wriggles and sings, “They found him in his bed, a bottle by his head, the old man is dead, the old man is dead.”

My blood runs very, very cold.

When John sees me approaching, he shakes his head ever so slightly, eyes wide and shining.

I snap my neck back over to the Lost Boys.

To the seven Lost Boys.

No.

No.

I count again.

And again.

My counting keeps coming out to seven, but that can’t be right, because there are eight.

So instead of counting, I start accounting for them by name.

Simon.

Nettle.

Victor.

Benjamin.

Smalls.

The Twins.

Who’s missing?

My breath catches.

No.

My feet carry me over to the boys, uneven as my back begins to ache from my descent. I tripped on a rock on the way here and thought that was a problem worth cursing about.

While the boys shove each other out of the way, I place my hands gently on their shoulders. The touch must be calming, because they part for me. Smalls glimpses me, and a sob bursts from his throat. The same throat that was just yelling to get out of his way.

He opens his mouth like he’s going to tell me what’s happened, but this time, no noise comes out.

When I place my hand on Simon’s shoulder, he says my name, ever so faintly. “Wendy, you shouldn’t look…”

But I do.

I look, because it’s the only thing one can do in a situation like this. Even though my mind is screaming at me not to. Even though I don’t want to know, don’t want to remember him this way.

The one boy I couldn’t find in the crowd.

Number eight.

He’s face-up on the ground, his eyes as wide as ever, except there’s no playful light in them. His mouth is slightly ajar, a trickle of blood already crusting in the corner.

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