The words fall like a blow. Her mother’s stories aren’t boring; they’re the most wonderful things in the world. She opens her mouth to object, but something in Peter’s expression stops her. It’s like her mother’s expression, when storm clouds roll in, closing down her face, but worse. A suggestion of hurt lingers in his eyes, but it’s buried deep.

She glances around the fire for the boy with the bruise on his cheek, suspicion over how he got it filling her with fresh dread. Peter is exactly the kind of boy to lash out in his pain, like an animal cornered but still possessed of its teeth and claws.

“I want to hear the rest of the story.” It’s the youngest boy who speaks up, the one who sucked on the tail of his shirt on the beach and hid behind Peter.

His expression is open and guileless, eyes shining with hope as he looks between her and Peter. Peter rounds on the boy, but the boy who called himself Arthur reaches him first, cuffing the boy hard enough that he tumbles off the log he’d been sitting on to eat his supper.

Peter nods approvingly. Pride straightens Arthur’s spine even as the fallen boy struggles against tears. His face is a picture of misery, but she can see that he doesn’t want to cry in front of the others. She can only imagine what they would do to him if he dared. She wants to go to him, comfort him, but Peter brings his hands together in a sharp clap, drawing all attention his way.

“Everyone get up! No more sitting around. It’s time for games.”

He twists his head around, owl-like, to look at her. The boys get to their feet, even the one Arthur pushed. They mill around, full of nervous energy, the camp suddenly charged with the storm that is Peter. She’s the only one left sitting. She looks to Peter, but his anger is gone, replaced by disappointment, as though she’s gravely wounded him.

The considering frown on his lips now is like the sweet way he smiled at her before, only in reverse. It takes the air from her lungs, leaving her throat thick. She tastes salt, her frustration returning and threatening to overwhelm her. What does he expect of her, and why does it change from moment to moment? Why can’t she remember her mother’s stories right? What if she never sees her mother again? What if there are no more stories and she forgets more every day? What if one day she finds her mother is gone completely, not just her stories, but everything about her, vanished like her own name?