Wendy reached out, lightly touching the skin just below the corner of his jaw.
A sigh smoothed out the tense lines in his face. He tilted his head, pressing his cheek into her palm, his skin soft and warm.
How many times had he gone through this? How many people had he helped? What terrible things had he witnessed? What had he sacrificed to protect others?
Wendy motioned for him to follow her. She led him back into her room and closed the door with a quiet click behind them. Wendy sat on her bed but Peter went back to his sleeping bag on the floor.
“Do you have a choice?” she asked. Her voice seemed loud in the dimly lit room.
“No—but it’s not a burden,” he told her as he lay out, clasping his hands on his ribs and staring up at the ceiling. “I don’t expect you to understand. There’s some things that just don’t have a cut-and-dried explanation.” He paused to consider his words. “It’s what I exist for,” he said after some thought. “I’ll do whatever I need to stop my shadow and save those kids, to keep other kids safe.”
Wendy didn’t know what to say. Peter took care of people, from the way he interacted with Alex at the hospital or Cassidy across the street, to soothing her mother with John and Michael’s voices in her sleep. He found lost children, took away their fear, and gave them a home in Neverland.
Peter rolled onto his side, hands twisting the pillow under his head.
What was it like to be him? To prioritize everyone else’s happiness, to bring other people joy, even if it meant suffering himself?
Wendy rolled over and inched to the edge of her mattress. She couldn’t see him, but she reached a hand down and felt his shoulder. She brushed her fingertips along his arm until they found his hand. Her fingers hooked around his and she gave them a gentle squeeze.
For a moment she lay there, holding her breath. Then Peter tightened his hand around hers. The acorn around her neck pulsed bright.
When she woke up the next morning, her hand was empty.
* * *
Her sleeping bag was rolled up tight, but the straps were put on the wrong way, making it lopsided. This was clearly the handiwork of Peter, so she didn’t worry about where he was. He probably just woke up early and—judging by the fact that no parent had barged in demanding what she was doing with a boy in the house—snuck out without her mother or father seeing.
On her way down to the kitchen, she saw that the door to her parents’ room was closed. When she got downstairs, Mrs. Darling stood at the stove cooking eggs.
On the counter sat a stack of toast, a bottle of orange juice, and a bowl of fruit. Wendy’s jaw went slack.
“You’re cooking breakfast?” This was a rare thing that only happened on birthdays, and even then, it was Wendy who did the cooking. Usually, breakfast consisted of cereal or a granola bar.
Mrs. Darling looked at her from over her shoulder. “Good morning,” she said with a smile. An actual smile, not one of those fake ones she usually forced. “I woke up and decided that eggs and toast sounded like a good idea. They were supposed to be fried eggs.” She frowned down at the pan. “But I broke the yolks, so I sort of just”—she twirled the spatula—“turned them into scrambled eggs.”
Wendy crossed the kitchen and openly stared at her mother. Her hair was down. Wendy never saw her mother with her hair down. It was always in a knot at the top of her head, even after she had just taken a shower. But here it was, down! It was a warm, light brown that pooled in loose ringlets to the middle of her back.
“Are you feeling okay?” Wendy asked, a small laugh escaping her.
“I feel fine,” Mrs. Darling said. She gave Wendy another smile at she stirred the eggs again. “I feel really good, actually. I slept so well last night. I hardly remember what a good night’s sleep feels like.”
Peter.
Wendy snatched a piece of toast and took a huge bite. With a big yawn, Wendy slumped into a chair at the small dining table and watched her mother as she cooked. How strange it was to see her like this, so conventional and domestic. It was unsettling, but more … surprising, even a bit nice. There