Wendy. Her mother’s name. Does Peter know her mother somehow? She’s never heard her mother speak of Peter or a place like this, and she would remember a story as strange as this one, wouldn’t she? She must remember to ask Peter when he returns.

She sits up; it’s easier than it was before. Was it earlier today that Peter gave her the sweet drink meant to make her feel better? Yesterday? She remembers lying on the sand. She remembers being afraid, and then not, all her thoughts and worries washed away like the tide.

The smells of saltwater and damp wood reach her. Outside her makeshift shelter, birds squabble. Her head aches, but her limbs feel stronger than they did before. She gets to her knees, crawling forward to peer out between the shelter’s branches. The squabble of birds resolves into boy voices, then Peter calling her.

“Wendy! Wendy, wake up! I’ve brought everyone to meet you.”

“I’m not Wendy, I’m…”

Panic scrabbles in her chest, then Peter’s words sink in. Everyone? What does he mean? Who else is here? She crawls out between the branches, squinting against the light. Peter stands barefoot on the sand, hands planted on his hips, hair a copper flame. A half circle of boys stands arrayed behind him. The youngest looks no more than five, chewing on the ragged tail of his shirt. His eyes are wide, his cheeks dirty, and there are leaves caught in the nest of his hair. All the boys’ clothing looks in need of mending, in fact, and none of them are wearing shoes.

Her mother and Cook have been helping her learn how to sew. Cook even said that she’s a faster learner than her mother was at more than twice her age. Every time she practices, she does her best to make everything neat and even, thinking about her stitches like she’s making scientific notations. She blinks. Why is she thinking about sewing? What is it about this place that makes it so hard to keep her thoughts straight for more than a moment at a time? It’s endlessly frustrating. There was something she meant to ask Peter, wasn’t there?

The boys all stare at her, some shy, some gaping in curiosity, others with eyes narrowed in suspicion. She glares right back at them; they have no right to look at her that way when she had no choice in coming here. The youngest boy, the one with his shirt in his mouth, moves closer to Peter, sheltering behind him, and her bravado fades.

In the bright midday sun, the boys’ shadows trail away from them like spilled ink. All except Peter, who casts none. She knows for a certainty that all solid objects cast a shadow. Her eyes must be playing a trick, or…

“Say hello, Wendy. We’re going to play a game, but first we must have introductions.”