She squeezes the stone in her hand, trying to hold onto the memory of nearly choking on it. Nothing here is what it seems. Nothing is safe. If she eats the boar, what will happen? Will she forget more of herself? There are all sorts of myths and fairy stories about cursed food and what happens to those who eat it, like Persephone and her pomegranate seeds. Her mouth waters, a sour taste, and she hates herself for it.

Across the dancing fire, Peter watches her. There’s a brightness to his eyes, an intensity. The flames make his features sharp, wicked.

“Wendy?” He says the name softly, and it lands like a hook in her flesh, pulling at her. It’s so familiar, settling around her like warmth, like home. It must belong to her with the way it fits against her skin, even though she can’t remember clearly.

“Yes, Peter?” She hears her voice as if from very far away.

Peter’s lips curve into a smile, his eyes sparking delight.

“You’re our guest of honor, you should have the first bite.”

He holds a broad leaf out toward her, piled high with meat. She never saw him cut it, but it’s there, steaming into the night, and her stomach growls again.

“Go on. Take it.”

She stands, circling the fire, even though everything in her screams to turn around and run. Peter’s smile is gentle, encouraging. She takes the leaf, heat from the roasted boar soaking through and into her palms.

“That isn’t fair.” Arthur speaks up, standing to glare between her and Peter. “She didn’t help to kill the boar at all. Why should she get the first bite?”

A fresh skin lies draped over Arthur’s shoulders, cut from the boar.

“You didn’t help either,” Bertie pipes up. “It was all Peter.”

Peter turns to beam at Bertie, who puffs up at the attention while Arthur scowls.

“That’s right,” Peter says. “I killed the boar, so I choose who eats first, and I say it’s Wendy.”

She wants to refuse. Her eyes sting, and the hollow ache gnaws at her. She’s so hungry it hurts, and the way Peter looks at her, the bright pinpoints of his eyes—she can’t refuse.

All at once she falls on the meat, stuffing it into her mouth with her bare hands. It burns her lips and her fingers and she doesn’t care. She chews and swallows and it only makes her want more.

“You see?” Peter claps his hands, delighted. “Everyone dig in!”

The boys follow her lead, falling on the meat like ravening wolves, like carrion birds. She finds herself jostling with them, fighting to get more. She claws at a reaching arm, Bertie’s she thinks, shoving him away. All around her is the sound of chewing, chewing, chewing.