Page 86 of Losing Wendy

“There are other ways into Neverland besides just the second star,” says Peter. “The second star is one of many gaps. The Sister had to make Neverland in a hurry. From how she’s explained it, there are gaps in the Fabric, holes and mistakes she made as she wove it under a time restraint, racing the boys’ fate. Those are how the wild ones slip in. I’m usually able to find them, to deal with them before they get anywhere close to the Lost Boys. Our Den is as far away from any of the mistakes in Neverland as I could get it. But I told you…Thomas strayed too far for me to protect him. So did Freckles. He was never supposed to go near that cove. They both must have wandered close to the gaps.”

I think of what the wretched stranger did to the boy who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

“Peter?” I ask, my heart thundering wildly.

“Yes?” he says, though his voice is cold, like he knows what I’m about to ask.

“You said all the Lost Boys were infected, right? That everyone here was supposed to die?”

Peter swallows, and that’s answer enough.

“Does that mean…” I pause, taking a breath. “Do you think the other boys are in danger? That their fates will come to find them too?”

“I don’t know,” says Peter. Why does that sound so much like a lie?

I’m about to confront him about it, but just as I’m about to open my mouth, someone yells from across the beach.

At first, I think it’s just the howling wind, but when I turn to look, I find a group of boys scrambling over the rocks. The Lost Boys approach us quickly, Simon running at the front, John taking up the rear as he holds Michael’s hand.

Why John brought him out given the weather we were experiencing only a few moments ago, I have no idea, but the storm itself seems to have died down. Like it changed its mind after it saw that its fun was over, that the mercenary it sent to do its dirty work was dead.

Simon glimpses the dead body first. His first inclination is to turn around. I watch his gaze bounce atop each head of the group, counting.

Sweet Simon.

As soon as he’s done counting, relief swarms his face.

Then he picks up his pace and runs.

“Peter, what ha—”

Simon’s eyes slip over the corpse’s wrist, landing on the bracelet.

The rest of the boys have caught up to us now. I go to call to my brother, but he’s lost in thought.

John’s attention is fixated on my hands. Or rather, the blood staining them.

Eventually,we get Peter upright, though his wings are already healing around the stitches I made.

“How did you know to come after us?” I ask Simon.

The boys all huddle around in a circle, some of them tending to Peter. Victor alone stands above the corpse, his eyes locked to attentionon the dead man. I wonder if he knows. If it’s worth telling him that this is the man who killed his brother. Perhaps he’ll hate me for stealing the kill that was his right.

“Peter never stays out this long in a storm,” says Simon, a teasing grin on his face as he looks at Peter. “It’s because he’s a princess about his wings. You would think they were made of cashmere.”

I consider how that’s not entirely true. He’d stayed out in the rain the day Freckles died.

Peter, now propped against a rock, shoves at Simon’s knees, but Simon dodges well enough.

The Lost Boys look back and forth between Peter and the corpse, an unspoken question hanging in the air.

“Well, if the rest of you are too much of obedient cowards to ask, I’ll do it,” says Victor, his voice hoarse as he looks at Peter. “Is this the man that killed my brother?”

Instead of answering, Peter nods toward me. Lip trembling, I pull the bracelet off the man’s limp wrist and hand it to Victor, placing it in his shaking palm and closing his fingers over it. As soon as he feels the press of the beads against his palm, he lets out a horrible strangled sound.

Rarely have I witnessed a man cry. There’s John and Michael, of course, but even John stopped the habit when my father told him he was a man now, and that men don’t show weakness.

Victor must have gotten the same message because he clasps his hand over his mouth as if to shove the wretched noise back in, as if he can swallow the sound, force it into his gut until the bile in his stomach churns it into excrement.

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