She should have kept to those silences, but the truth came bursting out. Watching her brothers suffer—John with the weight of the world on his shoulders, Michael with his eyes full of ghosts—Wendy couldn’t hold her tongue. With John of age to truly become the man of the house, and their uncle finally gone, she’d wanted to remind them of happier times, or so she’d told herself. Only instead of speaking reasonably, she’d shouted. Lashing out, insisting they see the world her way, refusing to listen. The more they’d resisted her, the more she’d kept on shouting. Until she couldn’t see her way clear to stopping, couldn’t find her way back home to common ground.

Anger became her habit, Neverland her defense. The more they’d tried to draw her out, the further she’d retreated into their shared past, to save herself from their denial, to save Neverland itself, as determined to remember it as John and Michael were to forget. No, John might as well ask her to cut off a limb; she wouldn’t be able to do that either. She cannot, and will not, deny Neverland. Even now.

Wendy stiffens as Dr. Harrington, impeccably dressed as always, walks down the path to join them. She keeps her gaze on his polished shoes, timing her breath to his steps. White stone crunches beneath his soles; his watch chain bounces, glittering with his motion. Anything to avoid looking into his eyes, into the face of the man who will be her jailor for who knows how long.

Even when the footsteps stop, Wendy keeps her chin tucked down. The uniformed man who opened the gate lines his shoes up—far more scuffed and plain—just behind Dr. Harrington’s bright ones. His place at Dr. Harrington’s shoulder is a subtle threat, and despite herself, Wendy looks up. The uniformed man stands a good head taller than Dr. Harrington. There’s a squareness to him, his shoulders broad, his hair cut neat and close. She wonders why he isn’t overseas, fighting.

There’s a name stitched over the man’s breast pocket— Jamieson. He catches her looking and his mouth twists, the expression an ugly one. Wendy starts, a fresh thrill of fear going through her. She has done nothing to this man, and yet Jamieson looks at her as though he wants to do her harm. She knew boys like him in Neverland, bullies following at Peter’s heels, but held in check by the brightness of his games. To Jamieson, she is a wild animal to be muzzled and chained at the slightest excuse. A yearling to be broken if she refuses the saddle.

“Mr. Darling.” Dr. Harrington extends his hand to John, breaking Wendy from her dark thoughts.