Timothy continues looking at her, hopeful, expectant, waiting for her answer. Would it be crueler to tell him? If Timothy knows the people in his dreams are his parents, will it be like opening a floodgate, reminding him of everything he’s lost? Maybe it’s better to only know he lost something, and not exactly what. How awful or careless must Peter be to take a mother and father away from a child so young?

“I think…” Anger, directed at Peter, cracks her voice. She swallows, trying again. “I think the people in your dream are people who love you very much. You don’t have to be afraid.”

Relief washes over Timothy’s face, immediate and pure. She envies him, and hates him, and wants to protect him all at once as he nestles against her again. All she can do is not pull away, putting her arm around him and feeling the tension run from his body.

“Will you tell a story? Like you did before?” He murmurs the request softly, barely audible. The sound makes her think of warm milk, but she tenses all the same, her muscles going rigid so he flinches away from her.

Fear spikes. What if she can’t remember any stories? What if she gets them all wrong again?

She forces herself to relax, pulling him close again, trying to ignore the speeding of her pulse. Timothy tilts his head to look up at her. He isn’t like Peter. He’s a little boy, so far away from his family that he doesn’t even remember what a family is anymore.

She’s never thought all that much about the fact she doesn’t have brothers or sisters. Now that’s she’s about to have a little cousin—if she ever makes it home, that is—she’s started wondering what it will be like to teach someone the things she knows. If she had siblings, she likes to think she would be a good big sister, helping to keep them safe, loving them, just like her mother with Uncle Michael and Uncle John.

“I could try,” she says. She remembers her family, at least for now, even if she doesn’t remember her name. She hasn’t lost everything, so she can give Timothy this little bit of comfort.

“What sort of stories do you like?”

“Adventures.” His voice is already sleepy, lulled by the words she hasn’t even spoken yet.

“All right, an adventure story.”

Timothy nods, a motion against her ribs as she takes a deep breath. Off amongst the leaves, in the deep shadowed places where the air is thick black and purple, fireflies blink in a lazy rhythm. Neverland is paused in the space before morning, stars still twinkling overhead, brighter than the ones she knows at home. Insects chirr, and a night bird she can’t identify trills a strange song.