Wendy leaned back against her pillows. Exhaustion weighed her body down, from her sore feet to the prickle of a sunburn on her forehead. The weight of the acorn felt reassuring. The warmth from where it lay against her skin seemed to radiate through her. Wendy sighed and closed her eyes. What was it about the acorn that made her feel so much more at ease? At least now she would be able to carry it around with her, and that seemed to soothe her worries enough for her to fall asleep.

CHAPTER 15

The Acorn

Wendy was in Neverland. To her left, the trees at the edge of the jungle grew thick and lush. Tucked against them were a couple of crudely made huts, fashioned from branches and huge palm fronds nearly as big as she was. Above, craggy, pitched mountains reached into the clear blue sky. Waterfalls poured over cliffs, nothing but thin silver ribbons in the distance. To her left, white sandy beach kissed the vast, empty, crystal blue ocean. Small birds in vibrant neon shades chased the rolling waves in and out, digging up seashells and singing.

Wendy sat in the sand, back in the body of her twelve-year-old self. She wore the same white leggings and she was sewing a patch into the knee with thread and a needle. The patch itself was made from a strip of thick green leaf.

And there, just in front of her—

“John, you have to share the white!”

“I’m not done with it yet! ’Sides, you’ll just spill it again.”

“No I won’t!”

Before her sat Michael and John. Just the way she remembered them, before they went missing in the woods.

Michael had the same curly mess of light brown hair. Leaves were tangled in the downy locks. His face was round, his cheeks full. He had their father’s upturned nose. Michael, wearing nothing but his khaki pants torn into shorts, struggled to grab a cup of white paint that John held out of his reach.

John sat cross-legged, with his usual carefully poised posture. He ignored Michael and continued painting with his index finger on a piece of burlap. His glasses perched on the very end of his nose as he made each stroke with careful deliberation. He still had his white button-down shirt on, though it was far worse for wear, and his dark hair was parted to the side.

Wendy wanted to cry out, to throw herself onto her brothers and hug them but, in this memory, she had no control of her body. She could feel sobs bucking in her chest, but no sound came out. In a frenzy, her eyes flew back and forth between their faces, trying to drink in every detail, willing them to just look at her so she could see their eyes again.

If this was a dream, it was a very cruel one.