Memories of catching crickets at night with her brothers danced in the back of her mind. John quietly waiting in one spot with a paper cup in his hand, listening hard to find one of the musical insects. Michael careening through the bushes when he caught one, scaring the rest off. John always threw a fit. They were never able to catch more than one at a time. They would put it in a jar, turn off the lights in their bedroom, and sit in silence—after Wendy told Michael to shut up at least three times—until the cricket felt safe enough to start singing for them. Even in the dark, she could always tell that John and Michael were smiling just as much as she was.

It was one of her favorite sounds.

“You’re really good at that,” she said softly as she stared up at Peter. They weren’t walking anymore.

He gazed down at her, no longer chirping. The way his eyes searched hers made her want to look away, but it seemed impossible to manage right now.

“You really don’t remember me?” he asked quietly, tension caught in the lines of his face.

“How could I remember you? We just met…” She lied because the truth just didn’t make any sense, no matter how much she wanted to believe it.

“What about your dreams? Do you not dream about me anymore?” he pressed.

Wendy squinted. “My dreams?”

Sadness, almost a sort of hurt, fell across his face.

“You can’t dream about someone you don’t know…” Could you? The sound of the crickets floated back to her even though Peter’s lips were completely still.

Peter’s chest rose and fell in a sigh. “It’s me, Wendy. Peter. Peter Pan.” His blue eyes bored earnestly into hers. He closed his hands around both of hers. “I know you remember me, you have to…”

Wendy felt like she wanted to cry, laugh, and run away all at the same time. She shook her head quickly. “That’s not possible. Peter Pan isn’t real,” she told him. Even as she said it, she felt herself doubting her own words. A part of her wanted to believe, as silly as it felt.

One thing was certain: He knew who Peter Pan was. So, even though she fought against it, the truth was that he’d heard the stories before. At some point, she had told him.

“Wendy Moira Angela Darling!”

Her father’s voice cut through the night. Wendy looked around. They were at the edge of the woods. The crooked white fence of her backyard was no more than twenty feet ahead.

She could see the back door to her house through the sparse trees. The kitchen lit up her father’s bulky silhouette.

“Where have you been? It’s the middle of the night! I’ve been calling you for hours!”