She turns the arrowhead over and over, trying to puzzle out its meaning and coming up with nothing. Something about it nags at her, familiar yet wrong. Like the moon shining over Neverland, the arrowhead is a little too perfect to be real. The flint shines against her palm, each chip knocked from its edge precise, and every one exactly the same shape and size.

A sound reaches her, soft and regular, and it’s a moment before she picks it out as crying, and not just another insect or a night bird. She tucks the arrowhead into the sleeve of her nightgown, warm between the fabric and her skin, and creeps to the edge of the platform, looking for the source of the crying. It isn’t quite dawn. The world is pearly gray and all around her, boys sleep. Like this—some curled on the ground, some draped in trees like big jungle cats—they look younger than they did in the harsh shadows cast by the moonlight. Even Arthur. Peter is the only one she can’t see. She pictures him roosted in the top of a tree like a wild bird.

The scene in the camp reminds her of pictures in her father’s books, black-and-white drawings of ancient ruins in far-off places. She’d hoped to visit those places someday, but now that she’s farther from home than she’s ever been, home is the only place she wants to be. The ache of missing it reaches for her, a palpable thing. The familiar scent of tobacco from the pipe her papa indulges in on special occasions. The smells of baking from the kitchen. Her mother, humming softly, unaware that anyone is listening. Even the ragged meow of the cat who comes to the kitchen door begging for scraps, the one who bites as often as she purrs, but still bumps into everyone’s legs asking to have her head scratched.

She recites the details to herself, trying to fix them in her mind. If she doesn’t, they’ll become like a story someone else told her, distant and far away. Peter hasn’t given her any more of the sweet tea to drink, but there’s still something standing in the way of her name, like a door she can’t see beyond. It’s this place, the details of Neverland writing over the details of her home. Earlier, when she tried to think of them, she couldn’t remember the color of her mother’s eyes. She can see her mother’s face, but it’s blurred, out of focus, the eyes a muddy blue-brown-green, and it terrifies her.