Despair shines in Tiger Lily’s eyes. Her expression begs Wendy to disprove her, tell her that her words are wrong. They are wrong. Anger sweeps through Wendy, sudden and bright, and it clarifies her thinking.

“You don’t belong to Peter. Some of the pirates left, and that proves it. As much as he wants to, he can’t control everything in Neverland. Trees and plants are one thing, but people are something different.

“Tell me…” Wendy stops, remembering Mary’s reaction the first time Wendy asked if she was an Indian. “Your people must have a name for themselves. Not what Peter calls you, but something that’s all your own.”

There’s a breathlessness to her words, leaving Wendy feeling dizzy and giddy all at once. Tiger Lily glances at her, puzzlement in her sunken eyes replacing the despair. Wendy pushes on.

“There must be stories you tell to each other. Not these,” Wendy indicates the painted walls, “but stories that are just your own.”

A dangerous scrap of hope flutters in Wendy’s chest. Her stories. Mary’s stories. They’re all ways of trying to make the world true, to reshape it in an attempt to control and understand it. Even Peter’s stories, or maybe his most of all, tried to do that, but what if Neverland has its own stories? Older, truer stories.

“Most of the time we were just Peter’s injuns.” Pain cracks Tiger Lily’s voice, a different quality than before. “But…”

Tiger Lily straightens slightly, and something changes in her eyes, a spark that wasn’t there before. Hope blooms in Wendy too, and she leans toward her friend. Tiger Lily’s gaze shifts, looking to a middle distance Wendy can’t see.

“There are times when I remember stories told around a fire. Not like Peter’s stories.” Tiger Lily gestures to the walls.

Her voice is hesitant, but in Wendy’s mind it conjures a fire built high, stars overhead, tall pines surrounding everything. An owl hoots softly. Tiger Lily and the others gathered together, shoulders touching, a circle excluding Peter and keeping those around the fire safe. The mermaids must have had their own stories, too. Maybe even Hook and his pirates. She wants to believe it, desperately. More importantly, she wants Tiger Lily to believe it, too.

“You were never just Peter’s injuns.” Wendy’s voice quavers. She fights to keep it from becoming petulant, a child arguing with Peter over his arbitrary and unfair rules.

For Tiger Lily’s sake, she would have stayed, should have stayed. Being Peter’s mother wouldn’t just have been about protecting him from the world, but protecting the world from him.

Tiger Lily’s shadow sprawls across the cave floor, sharper and darker than the pale light coming through the smoke hole should warrant. It’s twisted, a shackle, rooting Tiger Lily to the ground. When Wendy blinks, the image is gone.