Even though Wendy had never been away from the Pacific Northwest, she knew this had to be a jungle. Colorful parrots with vibrant red, blue, and yellow feathers called from nearby branches. In the distance, there was a soft thump of overripe fruit dropping to the ground. There must have been a beach nearby. Wendy could recognize the rhythmic song of waves crashing on the shore as it filtered through the jungle. The air was warm and heavy. Her skin felt sticky and she could taste salt on her lips.
Wendy looked down at herself. She wasn’t in the same bulky swimmer’s body she’d grown into over the last several years. This one was small, skinny, that of a child. She wore a pair of white leggings with lace hems and a white buttoned blouse with flowy sleeves. Even though they were smudged with dirt, she instantly recognized them as the clothes she had gone missing in.
Wendy’s heart pounded in her chest, but she couldn’t do anything. She couldn’t make herself get up or move. She had no control over her body. The sound of an owl drew her attention. That was when her head turned and she saw a young boy sitting next to her, his hands cupped around his mouth. He had a shock of wild auburn hair and dazzling eyes, all the more radiant in the sunshine.
A giggle escaped her own lips. The boy dropped his hands to his side and grinned at her. He had that same small chip in his front tooth.
Wendy’s throat felt tight, but she heard herself say, “You’re so good at that, Peter! Will you teach me how to do it?”
Of course it was Peter. This was the Peter she always pictured in her head. Much younger than he had been last night, but unquestionably him. Undoubtedly the same.
“Sure!” His voice was higher and it squeaked with his enthusiasm, but the self-assured tone was still there. “I can do this, too.” Peter pursed his lips and made a medley of cricket chirps. The same sounds he had made last night in the woods.
The sense that she had lived this scene before was painfully strong. It was more than déjà vu, it was a memory .
“Oh, I love crickets!” said her much younger voice again.
Peter grinned and scooted a bit closer, dangling his skinny legs over the log next to hers. “I know,” he said, knocking his bare foot into hers.
“Wendy! Peter!”
The breath she sucked in ripped her chest open.
“Wendy, where are you!”
She would have recognized those voices anywhere.
Peter scrambled away from Wendy. She heard herself giggle again, but she strained to hear the voices of John and Michael calling for her.
“We’re over here!” Peter called back.
She could hear both sets of their feet thumping through sand. The slap of lush undergrowth as they ran through it. She could hear John laugh while Michael whined, “Wait for me!”
They were right there, just behind that set of trees. At any moment, they would come into view and she would see her brothers again.
“Wendy?”
She woke with a jolt. Cold sweat covered her body and her hair stuck to her damp forehead.
Wendy was alone in her room again. She opened her hand. She’d fallen asleep holding the acorn. Maybe it was nerves, but Wendy swore she could almost feel the acorn thrum with some kind of energy. Her hand shook so hard that the acorn rolled off and onto the bed. She hugged her legs and pressed her forehead into her knees as she took deep, shuddering breaths.
It was real, it had to be. It wasn’t a dream, it was a memory. She didn’t know when or where, but her brothers and Peter had been there.
Peter.
A delirious laugh bubbled in her throat. Her Peter. Peter Pan. He was real.
And she needed to find him.
CHAPTER 9
Stories
Unfortunately, responsibilities and volunteer shifts kept Wendy from immediately searching for Peter. She was already late for her shift, and rushing around to get dressed and out the door did little to ease her raw nerves.
Wendy was already halfway across the yard and digging her keys out of her bag when she saw the cop car. She froze, keys dangling from her finger. Her head whipped around, searching for someone in uniform. Right now was really not a good time for them to come poking around again! She needed to find Peter and—
“I don’t understand why I’m being questioned.” The frazzled voice came from next door. Mr. Davies stood on his front porch. He fidgeted with a rolled-up newspaper in his hands, the knuckles white. Next to him, his wife clutched the robe she wore. Detective Rowan was on the step. Detective James stood just behind her and to the right.
“We’re just talking to people in the area, Mr. Davies,” Rowan said in a mild, even tone. Her hands were clasped behind her back, her expression impassive. Her badge glinted on her hip.