CHAPTER 11

Old Friends

By the light of the pixie dust sparking in his hand, Peter navigated them through the woods. He told her they couldn’t stay any longer, in case the shadow came back. Wendy would’ve fought him, but he made a good point—they would be blindly searching the woods. Wendy’s body was so heavy and stiff with grief and exhaustion, she simply didn’t have enough fight left to object further. It took every ounce of energy she had left to walk back to her house.

Peter led the way, and, though it bruised her pride, Wendy held on to his arm as they wove between trees and ducked under branches. She had a hard time looking at where she was going. Her eyes kept getting drawn to the pixie dust in Peter’s hand.

The small flecks of light leapt and bounced on his skin. They looked like they were dancing, or shaking with welled-up excitement. It reminded her of how Michael often looked, sitting in bed and squirming with glee when she began telling a story before bed.

The light danced on Peter’s face, casting a warm glow across his cheekbones and the tip of his nose and sparkling in his already bright eyes. Some shot up higher into the air, making corkscrew swirls before fizzling out, like embers popping in a bonfire, but with more life. Wendy wondered if they tickled his hand.

The woods no longer whispered, but Wendy still felt like they were being watched. After what seemed like ages, they hopped the fence into her backyard. Just as she was wondering what he would do with the pixie dust, Peter simply clapped his hands and the lights went out.

Wendy didn’t want to be near the woods any longer. The crushing sense of loss threatened to pull her down a path she tried hard to stay away from.

With some coaxing, she was able to talk Peter into coming inside.

Mr. Darling wasn’t sleeping in the living room anymore, and, after checking that his car was gone, Wendy assumed her dad had gone to the store or something. He never left notes about where he went, so she could only guess when he’d be back. Either way, she knew she would be in trouble when he did. She’d told him she wouldn’t be out past dark.

But there were more pressing matters at hand.

“Pixie dust,” Wendy repeated, wiping her nose off on the back of her hand.

Peter nodded, drumming his fingers on the counter. “Yup.”

Standing in her kitchen, leaning against the counter, it struck her how weird this all was. She believed him now, that he was Peter Pan—her Peter—because how else could she explain what had just happened? She kept catching herself openly staring at him.