She keeps her head up, keeps looking at Peter. Confusion passes through his eyes like a cloud across the sun, then his lips form a slow smile and he nods, as though she gave him her approval even though she did no such thing. She wants to stamp her foot and shout at him, but there’s no time. Peter whirls away from her to address the expectant circle of boys, all watching him eagerly. Except for Timothy, who remains pressed against her side.

“Hunters, gather your weapons. We are going to catch a boar.”

Boys scatter in every direction, like an anthill broken open. It looks like chaos, but in no time they’re assembled again into tense, eager lines, each holding a weapon. It makes her think of the pictures she’s seen of her Uncle Michael and her father dressed in their soldier’s uniforms, lined up with other men, ready to fight a war. Some of the men in those pictures scarcely look older than the oldest of the boys around her now. She’s allowed to look at the pictures, and even hold them, but she’s not allowed to ask Uncle Michael about the war.

Her papa looks handsome in his uniform, but Uncle Michael looks lost, afraid. She thinks her father might tell her about the war if she asked, but she also thinks her mother wouldn’t like it very much if he did. Besides, if she can’t ask her Uncle Michael, maybe it isn’t right to ask her father either.

Peter’s boys aren’t wearing uniforms. They’re as ragged as ever, and she wonders if they even have other clothes besides the ones they’re wearing. How long have they been here? Did Peter steal them all away like he stole her? Instead of guns, the boys hold spears, bows and arrows, slingshots, knives, and swords. Some of the weapons look as though the boys made them themselves, but others look stolen from the ruin of the ship, like the cup Peter made her drink from, and the hammocks.

It doesn’t matter what weapons the boys use, or what they’re wearing. Even though she isn’t allowed to ask about the war, she understands enough about what it means. War is where men go to kill each other. These boys—even though some of them are younger than she is—hold death in their eyes.

As she looks around at the assembled line, some of the boys refuse to meet her gaze. Others, like Arthur, glare back at her, defiant. For those who will look at her, she tries to convey without words that they don’t have to do this. She doesn’t want a welcome feast; she doesn’t want to be here at all.