“You’re too slow.” Peter stamps his foot.

“But…” Wendy points, her arm a disconnected and ghostly thing floating in the dark. “Those are bones. They must belong to someone. You said no one can die in Neverland.”

Peter’s face scrunches, folding into lines around the constellations of his freckles.

“They aren’t someone, silly. They’re just skeletons. Come on!”

He grabs her arm so roughly Wendy has to move her feet or fall. She twists around, trying to keep the bones in sight. Does Peter really not know that people have skeletons inside? Or is he lying to her, keeping secrets? Does he even know what it means to die? She thinks of the boys playing war, their swords harmless, the bloodless wounds she spent the day binding.

She tries to think of the exact number of boys she saw in the tent that day, or before on the beach when they first landed. Are they the same? The numbers and names and faces shift and blur in her mind, making it hard to keep track. She’s certain of herself, and Peter, Michael, and John, but aside from that, she couldn’t say exactly how many children are on the island.

The opposite sensation of what she felt squeezed between the rocks as she wiggled her way into the cavern seizes her now. It’s as though she’s standing on the edge of something vast; at any moment, she might fall. Ahead of her, Peter’s silhouette is ragged, wavering as the light grows brighter around him.

“We’re here.” He stops, and Wendy teeters to a halt behind him.

“What—” But she doesn’t get any farther, forgetting the bones and everything else.

The cave floor slopes sharply, becoming a bowl. In the center of the bowl, there’s a monster.

“It’s my secret.” Peter beams.

The orange light cuts harsh shadows into his face, making him utterly inhuman. Wendy’s gaze slides to the thing crouched below them. It’s like night, but darker. The orange glow doesn’t illuminate the creature the way it illuminates her and Peter. There are no details, only a solid blot like spilled ink forming the impression of a hunched spine, bones pressed against skin, legs bending the wrong way, wicked, curving horns.

“No.” Wendy shakes her head. She doesn’t want to look at it, and she can’t look away. She takes a step backward.

The monster turns toward the sound of her voice. It has no eyes, but somehow it’s still looking at her. It huffs a breath, scenting for her, or showing displeasure, she can’t say. The air smells of struck matches, like Wendy’s old sheepdog when she comes in from the rain.