I count the tick marks already etched into the stick. Five.

That's how many days have passed since I plummeted into the depths of Mermaid Lagoon –five long days living in a persistent tropical haze. Of course five feels more like twenty in Neverland days.

The sun sinks below the ridge and its warmth goes with it. My fingers fumble over the jagged piece of arrowhead as I engrave another straight line into in stick.

This is night six. It's the sixth Neverland sunset I've seen and the fourth from my stopgap fort.

My fort is nestled deep in the Neverwood –close enough to Pan's camp, but far enough that I will not be discovered unless I want to be.

I toss the stick on the ground beside me –next to the moss-covered leaf-wad I've employed as a pillow. My fort is filled with odds and ends, trinkets, and small provisions I've managed to garner on my canvas of the island –the trappings of a lone vagrant.

A weathered sail, which I discovered on a deserted beach, now doubles as a flat bed sheet. Frayed ropes fasten the palm canopy that stretches above me –a lush umbrella protecting me from the sun and rain. The arrowhead weapon is on me at all times.

My third day, as I made it halfway around the island, I stumbled upon a cracked and tarnished kerosene-lamp. It looks just like the ones that hang on the deck of the Jolly Roger.

I've circled the island twice, hyperalert, noting old and new landmarks and making careful notations on my hand-drawn map. I examine it now –spread out on the floor of my little home. Dark lines cross here and there, indicating intersecting trails and pathways. I etched a number of new landmarks onto the paper and scribbled quick captions.

The perimeter of Neverland has not changed. Mermaid Lagoon, where I swam ashore, remains in the southeast region. The north trail leads to the edge of Neverwood and the cliffs that overlook the dark waters. Around the topmost tip of the island is Skull Rock and just west of that is the Indian camp.

Traveling southbound, I hit the western most side of the island –a rocky peninsula named Peg Leg Point. I reached the sandy beaches of Cannonball Cove and found myself remembering just how rowdy the pirate village is. Where do the hundreds upon hundreds of pirates –adult pirates –come from? Luckily, I avoided the attention of the pirates and disappeared into the tiki trees.

Once I reached Mermaid Lagoon I made my way back to the Neverwood –back to my new home. The center of the island remains unexplored by my 17 year-old self.

My legs are sore from overuse. I'm no stranger to walking, having spent the last several years living on the streets with no means for transpiration that doesn't involve my own legs. Still, the terrain here is arduous –the topography morphing from flat sandy beaches to thick forests and steep mountainous trails in a matter of miles.

I soak my bruised feet in a basin made from smooth stones. It does not hold much water, but it's better than nothing. I warmed the stones in a fire; the heat helps as does the crushed eucalyptus grinds at the bottom.

///

Dusk is the best time to search for food. It's not so hot in the woods and there are less Lost Boys wandering around –most of them having returned to the cliffs for the fires. I close my eyes and smell the bonfire smoke of Pan's fire parties. I shake my mind clear.

Standing from my spot on the sail, I grab my arrowhead stick and duck under the leaf flaps. I walk west, heading in the direction of a patch of blackberries I remember passing yesterday. The berries will be my dinner, but they're also good for covering up the musky scent of forest floor.

The trees of Neverwood range from thick and steadfast to ancient to spindly and twig-like. A patch of naked branches and barren trees breaks up the dense tree canopy. I look up and see the twilit sky, stealing a moment of peace.

I sink to my knees at the row of brambles. The blackberry bush is closet.

A twig snaps behind me and I swivel on the dirt floor.

Tiny eyes watch me from behind a nearby tree.

"Hello?" I call out. "Come out, it's OK."

A small boy emerges from the tree line. He wobbles towards me, his chunky legs uneven on the forest floor.

"Hello," I say, crouching low beside him. "My name is Darling."

He looks at me with a dirty face and bright, innocent eyes. He can't be any older than Michael.

"Me is Dobo." He recites, proudly.

"Hi Dobo," I smile.

He touches my face with his soiled hands, leaving traces of dirt on my cheeks.

"Are you alone?" I ask, eyes narrowing on the thick tree line behind him.

"Dobo is alone. Dobo is doing the berries tonight," he says, pointing to himself.

"Doing the berries?" I ask.

"Doing the berries." He nods.

He must be collecting the berries tonight. I only need one guess where he's taking them.

"Are you a Lost Boy, Dobo?"

"Lost Boy!" He repeats, excited. "Dobo is! Dobo is!"

Dobo teeters back and forth, unable to conceal his pleasure at being called a Lost Boy. I smile half-heartedly, still checking the surrounding forest to make sure Dobo is alone.

"Shall we get the berries?" I ask.

Dobo shakes his head animatedly.

I lead him back to my spot in front of the bramble, kneeling down again. Dobo holds out the clay bowl, watching me, hopeful, like an expectant child waiting for food.

I drop a handful of berries into his cup and then a handful into the folds of my blouse.

Now is as good a time as any. "Dobo, is Peter Pan home?"

"Peter Pan! Peter Pan! At Hangman's," Dobo says, bobbing up and down again.

"So he's always at Hangman's?" I keep my voice calm, casual.

"Oh no. Tonight he goes to Black Cliffs."

Camp Black Cliff, home to the Piccaninny tribe.

My heart leaps inside my chest. If Pan really is leaving for the Indian camp tonight, then this is my chance.

"Does he –Does Peter Pan stay at Black Cliff? Does he ever stay with the Indians?" I ask.

"He does. He does." Dobo smiles.

"Will he stay tonight, Dobo?"

"He might. He might. Sometimes he takes other Lost Boys, but not Dobo. Never Dobo," he beams.

Elation. It's an unfamiliar feeling, unrecognized by my emotional palate of late.

"Thank you," I smile, nearly hugging the boy. "Thank you, Dobo."

He watches me, bemused, as I leap from my spot on the forest floor. I gather up my few berries –my stomach no longer hungry –and run from the bramble row.

I run back to my tent, eager to begin my plan.