I rouse at first light, unable to sit still in my excitement. My back is stiff from sleeping on the flat leaves and sail, but nothing can harden my spirits now. Today's the day.

With one last glance at the fort, I step into the forest and towards my brothers. Still unable to believe my stroke of luck running into Dobo, my heart feels buoyant and blissful. I will see my brothers today.

It's a short journey from my patch of the forest to the deeply wooded area that holds Pan's hideout. Once or twice I lose myself winding the labyrinthine trails known so well to Neverwood's native Lost Boys. Before long, before the sun peaks over the tree canopy, I arrive at last.

I enter the familiar territory –my feet light as feathers –the heart of Neverwood still dark under the dawn sky. The crooked silhouette of Hangman's Tree looms before me. Pan's hideout has remained unchanged. It's just another thing that I find remains exactly as I left it.

It is quiet in the makeshift yard surrounding the colossal tree and I wonder if the Lost Boys are sleeping soundly inside. I picture Dobo under warm blankets and furry hides. Him and countless more.

Mismatched holes appear in the trunk as though carved by random. From the inside they are uneven windows allowing shafts of light to flood the dark hollow. A zip-tie looking rope hangs from a taller tree on the edge of the wood. Its thick wiry end disappears into the top of Hangman's Tree. A spindly latter is propped against the right side of the tree, seemingly leading to nothing. I know better, having once climbed through that very trap door.

Wooden swords and spear-tipped sticks (similar to mine) are stacked high in the dirt out front, next to a crossbow and sling-shot.

A rickety post stands next to the carved roots at the base of the tree. Hand-written signs give directions and offer warnings to visitors. My eyes peruse the untidy scribbles.

LOST BOYZ

Hid- AwAy

NO PI-RATS

b-WaRe SlogS

Beware slogs. I reread the last sign –pointing to a suspect patch of murky mud –racking my brains for a memory of slogs.

I step up the rutted rock stairs and take a deep breath. Here I am at last –how many innumerable dream windows have I envisioned myself on this top step?

A lantern globe hangs from a torn piece of bark, glowing phosphorescent greenish-yellow. I recognize the faery light. No doubt a gift to Pan. It hangs like any other ordinary lamp beside any other ordinary door.

I know ordinary is as far away as London.

Deep breath.

I pull aside the mossy curtain cover that conceals the child-size entrance into the hollow. I'm welcomed by an influx of recollection. The smell and the taste of the air are both the same –the recollections I've come to associate with loss. Without really thinking about it –as if my legs are acting from memory –I'm finding the top step of the hand-carved stairs that lead downstairs –into the heart of the tree.

It's oddly palatial. Sure, it's a cramped room carved into the hollow of a giant tree. It's got dirt floors stacked with uneven stones. Walls made of wooden bark with vines hanging like curtains over the holed-out windows. Cots and hammocks, fashioned from leaves and animal hides, are scattered throughout the room. Still, there's an impressive, splendid quality to its grandeur.

I remember sharing this sentiment even as a tiny girl. I remember the awe and marvel I felt the first time walking into Hangman's Tree.

The farther I move into the hollowed tree, the clearer my distorted memories become –like blurred lines suddenly becoming strong and distinct. The ground is hard earth lined with flat stones. A smaller tree trunk stands in the middle of the room, a wooden centerpiece that rises from the earth and stretches to the ceiling. Nails have been hammered into it on all sides. Various weapons and articles of clothing hang from the center tree like so it appears a whimsical coatrack.

Deep gouges and shallow etches cover the bark in what looks like a random design. As I sidestep closer, my neck craned up, I notice it's something else: Names.

Hundreds of names –some I recognize and some I don't. I scan the notched and painted letters –my eyes finally resting upon it.

WENDY

An array of waxy candle stubs litters the chest-like table that's pushed against the far wall. Sheets of bloodstained parchment lay under an upturned ink well. A rickety makeshift chair is sideways on the floor. It looks like someone leapt from the table in a hurry.

A gap in the wall leads to the den below where I know the Lost Boys sleep. The gap behind me leads to Pan's private living quarters.

In two long strides I bridge the gap and peer into the chasm in the tree roots.

Pan's bed is set against the opposite wall, large and round and perched upon a pedestal of rock and marble –and empty. I release the breath I didn't know I was holding.

Thank you, Dobo. Thank you, Indians.

Glancing over my shoulder to make sure I'm alone, I enter Pan's room for the second time in my life. The last time Pan summoned me here, he had asked me (fervently) to be the Lost Boys' mother. It was then I realized that Pan never intended to let me leave Neverland the first time.

I walk deeper into the room, gliding my fingers over the plush fur comforter, eyes narrowing on the bamboo flute resting on the bed-stand. I picture Pan playing it now, the high notes invigorating –instilling a frenzied energy into the Lost Boys as they gambol around the bonfire.

An orb of faery light casts an eerie glow on Pan's ceiling –making the tree roots dance like dark flames.

Small beaded bracelets, similar looking to the one I saw Dobo wearing, wrap the headboard posts. A locked golden chest is perched atop a tall cabinet in the corner of the room, its presence glowering. I wonder if it was stolen from the pirates –or if it's something worse. I swallow away the thought.

A low shuffling noise rips my concentration from the mesmerizing faery light.

One. Two. Five.

The crack in the wall of Pan's room is fills with peeping, curious faces.

I walk towards them, anxious to leave Pan's private bedroom behind, and they disperse in front of me.

More Lost Boys appear, a steady flow as they all enter the room one after the other, their eyes still groggy with recent sleep.

I see my brothers. As I expected, as I knew, they haven't aged. In fact, they somehow seem even younger now than the day I left. Perhaps because I am so much older now. Or perhaps because we are separated now by more than just years.

I rake over John and Michael and they are –wild.

Their clothes are dirty and torn and their feet blistered from going bare-foot. It's obvious they tried to cut their own hair –each side is a different chopped length. Strings of what look like pebbles and shells and teeth hang like prized necklaces around their necks.

John and Michael blend in with the rest of the Lost Boys, flaunting no remnants of a pampered London life.

"Hello." I step towards them when a quiet voice squeaks.

"You is Darling."

I look around and see Dobo watching me from his spot in the lineup –wedged between two much taller and older boys.

"That's right, Dobo. It's me, Darling. A friend, remember?" I plea.

My eyes flicker over the faces I recognize –the Lost Boys I spent time with on my last trip to the island. I see Rabb, named after a rabbit and wearing a necklace of rabbits' feet around his neck. There's Fawn and Fox and Badger. My heart swells as I find them.

I move down the line and kneel in front of Michael and John.

"John, Michael!" I turn to each of them in earnest, unable to conceal the glee I feel. "It's been so long. Oh, how I've missed you."

I try to hug them, throwing an arm around each one and drawing them to me, but they do not move. Their limp arms remain at their sides and their eyes are empty of any recognition. They do not share in my elation.

"It's me. It's your sister," I plea.

My voice betrays me. I can hear the fear and the panic. I can hear the desperation as I plead for them to remember me.

In my heart, I know they forgot me the day I left Neverland.