"John, NO!"

I wake up yelling, my throat almost hoarse.

Yellow light flickers into the alleyway from the lamppost on the corner.

The image in my mind's eye fades into nothing, but I grasp at what I remember.

John was climbing a tree higher than the clock tower. Pan swept over the treetops of Neverwood, goading him into letting go. He called it flying lessons.

Michael watched from a cluster of boys on the ground. There were faces of the Lost Boys I remembered and then some new ones that I did not recognize. The sky was a brilliant azure, the sun dazzling above and bouncing off the surface of Croc Creek. I try to hold on to the image.

The dream is gone but my new memory of Neverland is real. I say memory because, without any true confirmation, I know my dream has happened. I know John climbed a tree taller than Ben with the intention of jumping off to fly.

It is strange to see them again, knowing they haven't aged. I remember how long the days were there and I wonder how long it's been for them.

I wonder if they will even remember me.

When I'm awake, I'm thinking of Neverland. I close my eyes and picture everything over and over, willing myself to memorize it –to remember it –so that I won't forget it. So that I'm prepared when I finally make it back. I'm helped by the night and by the dreams it gives me.

I can taste the salt in the air of Cannonball Cove and I can hear the drums of Indian Camp Cliff. I can even feel the pixie dust as it falls on my skin, a dancing glimmering powder. I see the mermaids flipping around the lagoon and smell the thick bonfire of Hangman's Tree. I relive almost everything. Sometimes I think it's how Neverland stays so fresh in my mind –how I know I'm not going mad.

The dreams or windows as I call them are always different. It's how I know they're more than dreams or memories. They are nightly windows into what is going on in Neverland. I've told myself it's because my mind remains connected. You see, most children come back and they forget. They grow up. Their dreams of Neverland are just that; they are shapeless, meaningless memories of their adventures with Pan. Stories.

Well, I came back and I grew up, but I never forgot. The absence of John and Michael reminds me every day.

My windows are more than the stories of fairytales.

There was a time when I wrote them down –years' worth of dream windows –an anthology of misguided adventures.

A particular one stands out now. It was nighttime on Neverland as Pan's hideaway campground came into view. There was a blazing bonfire high on the north cliffs that overlook Skull Rock. The Lost Boys chanted in a circle, dancing around like the wild flames of the fire come to life. I saw John and Michael, faces dark with war paint, wearing outfits made from the forest. A look of mad fervor twisted the usually kind features of their faces. Their eyes shone bright, but also empty.

It was the first time I woke up thinking my greatest fear: That even if I get back, even if I can find them, they won't remember me.

A loud clunk startles me into an upright position. I lean my back against the dirty wall and peer into the darkness down the alley.

"Oi Darlin'. You down here?"

I exhale the breath I didn't know I was holding in. It's only Rat.

"Darlin'?" Her familiar throaty voice calls my name again.

"I'm here. Down here." I pant, my heart still racing.

"About ready?" Rat asks, stepping into the patch of light beside me.

I admire Rat's new boots and wonder where she nicked them. Rat, like me, is an orphan living off the streets of London and all they have to offer.

"I'm ready now. Let's go." I stand, yanking my knapsack up with me.

"Still cartin' it 'round, then?" Rat stares at my tatty bag.

"It's all I got," I say, swinging my bag over my shoulder.

It's true. My knapsack is all I have to my name, well along with everything inside it. It would likely be snatched if I left it behind, but that's not why I carry it with me now (and every night). I carry it for the phial of pixie dust, for my seashell keepsake from Mermaid Lagoon, and for the tattered hand drawn map of Neverland inside.

I subconsciously pull it tighter against me.

I quicken my pace and Rat falls into step next to me.

"Ran into Josie and Kip tonigh'," Rat says.

"They're back in town?" I ask, absentminded. Josie and Kip were a pair of twenty-somethings we used to run with –before they left London without a trace.

"Sure are." Rat nods.

"Meetin' them Thursday, I am. Round the south docks. Come with me, Darlin'. Oh, they'll be pleased to see you," Rat sputters with excitement.

"Sure," I say, but I don't mean it. I can't focus on Josie and Kip and the south docks tonight.

"You know, I got a feelin' bout tonigh'. A real feelin' I do," Rat says.

"You say that every night, Rat," I smile as much as I can.

"Oi, I say it. But tonight I mean it," Rat grins.

My eyes sweep over her matted hair and the specs of dirt trailing across her nose. I can't help but laugh. As much as I want to find Neverland I will miss Rat.

Rat helps me search the streets at night. We've been at it for nearly two years now. It's not so bad having someone along; at least she keeps me company when I want and we get through twice the number of windows. It helps keep her busy too.

We aren't always on window watch. Sometimes we search alleyways or dustbins, looking to nick food or discarded clothing. A few times we run into other groups, throwing parties in alleyways or parks. We've had some good laughs and scares but always scram before the Bobbies show up.

The orphanage lets us sleep in the basement when it storms and Ms Taylor, the matron, sends down the leftover soup dregs. Once or twice she gives us loafs of stale bread. It's not so bad as it softens in the soup. Sometimes Rat and I meet up and watch the storm from London Bridge. We climb the tower and watch everything happening below. It's grand this time of year, autumn, when the nights are lazy and warm. When it gets too cold we retreat to the sewers.

Rat calls us dark street hearts, because we're toughened and streetly, and explore the city by dark night rather than by day. I like it. Dark Heart. Sounds like some type of wild bandit you'd expect to run into on Neverland.

My time with Rat has helped me through my years alone. It's almost like having a sister. Rat told me all about how she ran away from home when she was thirteen and how she came down to London and ran into me only a few months later. I of course would tell her stories about my home and my brothers and our wild adventures on Neverland.

I don't think she's ever believed me, but I appreciate her feigning enthusiasm. I appreciate her commitment to my window-searching cause.

Of course, she doesn't know exactly what our window search will yield. Rat doesn't know

It's that second-story window that's slightly ajar, hidden from view, and bathed in dim light. I remember all too well the soft glow of the iron lamppost that hung on the corner of our street. I remember watching from my bed in the nursery as it clicked on to signal bedtime.

"Lucky it's warm tonight, right?" Rat peers cheerfully at me.

"Lucky, right." I nod.

It's certainly a sticky warm night.

We cross over Centre Street, almost emptied now in the quiet night, and skirt around the gate into the park. A group of raucous men stands on the corner, their shouts echoing in the air. Somewhere above them a light buzzes, flickering dark shadows over their distorted faces.

"Partin' up here again?" Rat asks.  Her small watery eyes indicate the fork in the park lane.

"Nah, let's stay until the other side of the park," I answer. "You make right and I'll take the left."

My gut lurches. On the other side of the park, just one street over and hidden beneath a brush of ivy, is the Darling house –the shrine to who I used to be.

The soles of my worn-out shoes are so thin I can feel the gravel crunch beneath me as if only a sheet of paper separates me from the street. My heart races as we approach the edge of the park lawn. Something feels different tonight. Something feels close. I find myself now more than ever hoping that Rat's feelin' is more than just that.

"This is where I leave you, Darlin'," Rat says.

"We meet back at the alley," I declare. This is our usual meeting spot.

Rat nods matter-of-factly. She spins on her heels and shouts over her shoulder, "Jolly fun this is, right? Look out for them ghosts. See you at dawn!"

"See ya, Rat!" I call after her, but she's already 50 yards down the lane, mazing in and out of parked cars and carriages.

I watch as Rat's silhouette shrinks and grows darker, becoming just another shadow dancing in the night.

I turn to the left.

You got this.