She scrubs the tears from her eyes and wipes her hands on her nightgown. To her relief, her eyes stay dry, even though they feel hot and achy. She’s sick of feeling sorry for herself. So what if no one is coming to save her? She’ll just have to save herself.

She stands, listening for any change in the breathing around her. At least the too-bright moon makes it easy to see, so she doesn’t step on any of the boys lying scattered around the remains of the fire as she picks her way to the edge of the camp. Should she return to the shore? All ships have lifeboats, don’t they? Perhaps there’s a lifeboat near where she woke up. Could she row herself all the way home? Even though she doesn’t know where Neverland is on a map, if Peter flew her here without stopping it can’t be all that far from London, can it?

At the barricade, she pauses and glances over her shoulder. None of the boys have moved, dark shapes on the ground, draped in hammocks strung between trees, and curled up on platforms tucked among the branches. She squares her shoulders and steps over the invisible line separating Peter’s camp from the woods. A thrill runs through her, making her feel brave and dangerous.

With luck, the boys won’t notice she’s gone right away. She hurries her step. The sun could come up at any time, as she’s seen, but if she’s quick, perhaps she can escape while darkness holds and before anyone has had too much of a chance to miss her.

A terrible shape drops onto the path in front of her, and her heart jumps into her mouth along with a startled shout.

She can’t make sense of it. All she can think of is a massive spider or crab, angled limbs sticking up in wrong directions. It blocks the path completely; there’s no way to get around it. Are there monsters in Neverland?

Should she run back to the camp? Wake Peter and the boys? At the moment, she can’t do anything at all. It’s like being stuck in one of those dreams where you want to run but your legs won’t move. Eyes shine at her through the dark, a hint of a smile beneath them like the thinnest crescent moon.

All at once the shape resolves into Peter, but she feels no relief. There’s a wrongness to him, the way he’s crouched on the path, angled limbs like a marionette, like a wooden doll, all jumbled in a pile. He throws his head back, letting out a crowing call, a weird, warbling echo that makes the skin prickle all up and down her spine.