He leaned closer to her and pointed to himself. “I’m Peter,” he said slowly, as if he were trying to explain something very simple to a small child. She couldn’t tell if he was being serious or making fun of her.

Either way, Wendy glared. “No. I mean, who are you?”

Peter scratched the back of his head again. There were pine needles stuck in his messy auburn hair. “You’re acting really weird. Is this some kind of game I’m not getting?”

A manic laugh shotgunned out of her. “I’m weird?” Wendy demanded. “You kidnapped me and are holding me hostage in a hunting shack in the middle of the woods!”

“Kidnapped? I didn’t kidnap you, you fainted—”

“I got knocked out because you—”

“Fainted,” he corrected. Wendy spluttered—was he serious?—but he continued on. “You fainted, I brought you here so you weren’t just lying out on the grass all night”—he paused in counting on his fingers to slant her a look—“you’re welcome, by the way. And you’re only being held ‘hostage’ by that mess of springs you got yourself caught in,” Peter added, pointing at her leg.

Wendy teetered on her good foot. She didn’t have a leg to stand on, metaphorically—or literally—speaking. This all sounded semi-rational, but Wendy still didn’t trust him. She squinted at him.

The fact that he stood there, looking both triumphant and amused, didn’t help her mood.

It was maddening because she did recognize him, but for reasons that didn’t make any logical sense. It was all things she had imagined about Peter Pan. The small chip in the corner of his front tooth. The confidence in his voice. That damn charming smile. And those eyes that felt like she was looking at stars.

Wendy forced herself to focus, to think practically. She needed to get somewhere safe because being with him felt dangerous. It was the sort of danger you felt before jumping off a cliff into water: a low rush in the pit of her stomach that made her fingers tingle.

“Why didn’t you just take me into my house instead of dragging me out here?” Wendy ventured.

She could see him chew on the inside of his cheek. The muscles in his jaw flexed and relaxed, accentuating the curve of his freckle-peppered cheekbones. “I didn’t want to run into your parents,” he said, scuffing the floor with his bare heel. “I mean, it’d look pretty weird if I just showed up at your house with you unconscious.”

Wendy tried to judge whether or not he was lying. She still didn’t know how he knew her name.

“You look pale,” Peter cut in, giving her a worried look. He moved to take a step closer, but seemed to think better of it and stopped.