My feet sink through the grassy marsh on the outskirts of Croc Creek. Its rushing water is up ahead, visible through the gaps in the thinning forest. I pick up my pace, drudging my legs through the swamp.

One word keeps plaguing my mind: Culling.

Is Pan really capable of stealing souls? Or merging them with his own? And what did Pan mean 'You will join us in the end'?

I think of poor John and Michael, helplessly brainwashed, and even poor Dobo, his only mistake being too gullible –too trusting.

Even I trusted Pan once, a thought that haunts me as I travel southward, chasing the sound of the stream.

The sun shines brightly and in the second I spare to look up, I collide with something large and solid. I'm reminded of crashing into Rat on the alley corner. I fall flat on my back, my vision obscured by a silhouette in the sun. As it moves, I realize I ran headfirst into a person.

"S-sorry," I breathe.

I stand, doubled-over and clutching at a stitch in my side, ready to face whatever pirate or Indian I've just run into. Praying, silently, that it's not Pan.

"But I'm sorry, me lady."

I look up at a young man maybe a year older than me, his head cocked in concern.

Not a pirate or an Indian by the looks of his normal-enough clothing. Good sign.

"I didn't mean–on the run–sorry." I blurt out my excuses.

"On the run?" His voice assumes a mock-serious tone, his eyebrows furrowed. "Was it thievery? Or assaulting people, perhaps?" A smile crinkles the corners of his eyes.

"I said I was sorry," I say defensively.

"You did." He nods.

I step back, raking in his complete character.

He's tall and broad with tanned skin and hair like dark chocolate waves. Maybe a pirate, unless he has an unrelated habit that requires carrying a sword. It's currently affixed to the belt on his leather pants. My eyes fall over his peasant top, loosely laced over his chest.

I look up and find piercing sea-foam eyes staring into mine.

"I'm Salt." He holds his hand out to mine, waiting for my introduction.

"Salt?" I can't help myself.

"You're Salt too? Can't say I've ever met another," he laughs and reveals a very dazzling smile for a pirate. No wooden teeth, no rotting decay or putrid breath.

"Darling," I say, still brushing grass from my trainers.

"You calling me darling already? Bit fast, don't you think?" Salt grins.

"Clever," I say, eyes rolling.

"I am, aren't I?"

Salt rolls up his blouse, revealing toned sun-kissed forearms. I quickly look away when his eyes catch mine. "Where are you on your way to?"

"I– well–" I break off, looking around. Where am I going to go? "Where are you headed?"

"The crew is headed back to Cannonball Cove." Salt inclines his head to a group of rowdy boys halfway up the creek.

"Crew?" I raise my brow.

"Of The Marooner. We're gathering supplies inland before we circle the island again. On our way back to the ship now," Salt says, wringing out a handkerchief in the freshwater.

I stand beside him on the pebbled bank of Croc Creek.

"The Marooner is a ship? So you're a pirate?"

"Ok, Darling. Calm down. Don't choke on your judgment." Salt laughs. "We aren't all horrible."

I think back to my first encounter with a pirate on Neverland. I think of Captain Hook and how he tormented Tiger Lily and threw the Lost Boys in the brig. He made me walk the plank! How much better could this Salt be –even if he is around my own age?

The vociferous crew is as unruly as the swamp marsh around Croc Creek. They are loud and many and you cannot tell what's going on.

Inspiration hits.

"Salt," I gasp, grabbing at his blouse. I ignore his raised eyebrow. "Can you get me on the crew?"

Hiding in plain sight on a pirate ship that orbits the island is as good a place as any to pass my time.

"The crew?" Salt asks, slightly taken aback. He looks down at my hand on his chest. I withdraw it quickly, blushing. "You want to be a Marooner?"

I can tell he is seriously considering my sanity. I cross my arms over my chest. "Is that judgment?"

"Course not. Crew would be lucky to have another," Salt says.

"Good." I nod.

We reach the company in minutes and the Marooners greet Salt and welcome me blindly into their crew.

"I'm Patch." The boy closest to me introduces himself. I note the eye patch covering the left side of his face and I wonder if he's really missing an eye.

"This is Skip, Trap, and Robb." Salt names a few of the others.

"Hi," I nod, smiling feebly at the crew.

Salt and I follow the band of pirates down the glistening banks of Croc Creek. My head turns at every sound of canon fire, squawking birds, and rustling trees –perpetually on the lookout for Pan.

By midday the sun is directly above us. My legs are barking sore and my mouth dry as parchment.

"Water?" Salt asks, holding out a canteen.

Maybe it's from living on the streets of London, but I take a swig of water without question. Salt smiles in contentment.

"So what are you on the run from, Darling? Is it the redksins? Or the Lost Boys?" Salt tilts his head.

I stop drinking and quickly turn away, suddenly interested in the riverbank.

"Ah, your face betrays you. It's the Lost Boys, then." Salt utters, surveying me. "Or maybe just a Lost Boy?"

"The Lost Boy." I nod, eyes narrowed.

"Peter Pan?" Salt's eyebrows rise. "Whew, what's he into now?"

"He has John and Michael," I blurt out. I'm unsure why I'm sharing everything with this savvy pirate of a stranger.

"John and Michael? Friends of yours?" Salt asks.

"My brothers," I say, my voice quiet.

My throat swells at the memory of seeing them –at the memory of them not recognizing me. Are they too far gone?

"Ah, Pan's got your brothers, has he? Is this your first trip to the island?" Salt steps alongside me.

"No." I don't offer anymore and I'm desperate to change the subject. "What kind of name is Salt anyway?"

Salt stops in his tracks, looking both offended and amused. I shrug and add, "Just asking."

"It's a nickname, short for something." Salt's foamy eyes peer into mine. "What kind of name is Darling, Darling?"

"Clever." I roll my eyes. My fingers fumble over the new cord Salt gave me to sew my knapsack. "It's my last name."

"And do you have a first one?" Salt asks.

I think of Wendy, of when I used to be her. I shake my head. "Used to. Not anymore."

"Oi Cannonball Cove dead ahead!" The boy who called himself Patch shouts at the front of the line.

My eyes follow the trail and as the river winds a last bend, a full cove comes into view.

It's just as I remember it: Shimmering sapphire waters enclosed by a crescent-shaped beach with white sands, surrounded by tiki trees. Large rocks jettison out into the bay, creating a rock wall on the side of the cove opposite the Nest. Multiple ships are anchored at port.

Croc Creek's mouth ends directly at the entrance to the Nest, a sort of outdoor pirate village built on the docks and filled with saloons and a marketplace bazaar. I can already hear the boisterous and disorderly crowd up ahead –thronging the Cracked Barrel (a pirate rum establishment). The air is so thick with the smell of rum that I can almost taste it on my tongue.

"Just –best to stick next to me," Salt says.

I nod. I do not need to be told twice.

If I thought the Marooners were boisterous, they are nothing compared to the foolhardy, drunken crews crowding the bazaar. I walk through the Nest, careful to remain close to Salt.

"For ye, Darlin'." Patch shoves a cracked canteen into my hands. I smell the coconut-spiced amber rum.

Salt steers me through the uneven road, circumventing rowdy pirates left and right.

A podgy and surly looking man steps in front of our path, foamy liquid spilling over the top of his tankard.

"Ah. Look who it is. Mr Salt. Wha's this we got here?" A man says, eyeing me suspiciously.

"New crew member," Salt says, rather loudly. "What's it to you?"

"Wha's it ter me? WHA'S IT TER ME?" He bellows. "I don't care who yeh are. Outta the way, Salt!"

Salt stands his ground, looking at the man determinedly.

The quick moment of tension snaps as the crowd disperses behind us.

"Make way! Cap' coming down." A harried looking man, short and round, breaks up the crowd.

"Outta thur way, scruffy!" Another man growls.

The atmosphere shifts with anticipation? Excitement?

"Tha's righ', make way."

The pirates dislodge as the portly man comes to a stop in front of us. He takes the ratty ruby cap off his balding head and twists it in his hands.

My stomach drops.

Smee.

I know exactly who the Cap' is. Hook.

As soon as I think it, as though propelled into action by my mere thought of him, Captain Hook's blood-red tailcoat emerges from the sea of black and white.

"Oh no," I mutter under my breath. "Captain Hook."

I spin around, searching frantically for a way around this –a way out of what I know is about to happen.

"We must go." I whisper quietly, but urgent nonetheless. My eyes plea with Salt's to understand, but it's too late. Salt's eyes leave mine and dart up to the ruthless pirate before us.

My eyes sweep his face and confirm that he, unlike Pan, has not changed. Not even his mustache has grown. A pristinely polished tricorne rests atop his ebony shoulder-length hair. A golden-hilted sword, not unlike Salt's, hangs from his waist and a silver hook glimmers on the end of his arm.

"What's all this fuss? Visitors, is it?" Captain Hook asks, looking down upon the Marooners. He almost completely ignores Salt. "But you aren't vis–"

Captain Hook's dark eyes meet mine and I see recognition register on his face.

"Well, well," Hook snarls, his companions jeering. "Visitor indeed! Look who grew up, Miss Darling."

My muscles tighten and I feel Salt shift beside me. I chance a quick look at him and can almost feel the puzzlement flittering in his eyes.

I look back at Hook, who has not taken his eyes off the two of us. He takes a lengthy swig from his mug, his lopsided smile glistening with rum.

"Take 'em to the Jolly Roger!"