We step out of the tunnel and I realize that I don’t know where Kelvin is.

        Most of the lost boys have dispersed. About three of them-including Felix-are still hanging around the clearing, but the rest are gone.

        “Where’s Kelvin?”

        Bert ignores my question, “Didn’t you want to see Pan’s place?”

        “Not until I know that-”

        “Kelvin’s fine.” Felix cracks his knuckles as he walks toward me. His eyes are dark beneath his patch of blond hair. “He’s with his family.”

        I fold my arms. “A gang of lost boys is no family.”

        “And you would know this…how? You are an orphan, just like him. We’re all orphans. Our parents might not have died when Pan found us, but they have by now.” Felix leans closer, his stale breath hitting me. I step away from him, my nose crinkling in disgust.

        Bert fidgets. “Like Felix said, Kelvin is fine. Now about our tour.”

        One of the boys stands up. He spins a dagger between his fingers. He glances at me, then scrapes his knife along a block of wood.

        “What are you doing?” I ask.

        He keeps his head down. “Whittling.”

        A hand tugs on my arm. “Let’s go.” Bert whines.

        “Wait a moment.” I turn back towards the boy. “Can I see it, please?”

        His mouth twists, caught somewhere between a frown and a grin. “All right.” He hands me the figure.

        My eyes brighten as I study what he has made out of a chunk of wood. “Me? Is this supposed to be me?”

        “Do you see any others girls around here? ‘Course it’s you.” He shuffles his feet. His dark brown hair brushes across his forehead. Green eyes smile at me. Green like Peter’s eyes. “I’m not done with it yet.”

        I hand him the wooden girl. I look at his dagger and don’t see danger. I see talent. Beautiful, simple talent. “Thank you. Oh, I never got your name.”

        “Daine.”

        “Well, Daine. Thank you.”  I squint in the bright sunlight. He looks like he is my age, maybe even a bit older. Of course, he has probably been around for centuries. This island is messing with my mind.

        “Bert?” I turn around. The leaves shake in the largest tree.

        “Are you coming or not?” A voice yells down. Oh, so Peter doesn’t live under the tree, he lives in it.

        This time I don’t ask Bert to fly me up. Climbing trees is better than climbing tunnels.

        My bare feet scrape against the bark as I reach up and grab the lowest branch. Good thing the other three boys walk away. No need for them to watch as I try to pull myself up.

        I carefully weave my way through the maze of branches and leaves.

        Branches scratch my feet and hands, but I can’t stop grinning. My stomach grumbles a bit. It doesn’t slow me down. Hunger I am used to.

        “You made it.” A hand appears in front of my face. Bert pulls me into some sort of treehouse.

        “Amazing.” I balance on a nearby branch, peeking into Peter’s fort. It is simple, as if someone wove branches together to make a floor and roof. Papers, daggers, and various oddities are spread out on the wood. A squirrel scampers across the pile.

        I have never seen anything more beautiful.

        “Come on. This is the best part.” Bert climbs several branches and reaches the roof of Peter’s treehouse. I hurry after him.

        This must be where Peter sleeps. A few blankets are spread on the floor. It is a mess. Fragments of glass sparkle in one corner. I am not sure what it is from.

        “Should we be up here? Will Peter be mad?”

        Bert hesitates, then shrugs. “Nah. We’ll only be here for a minute or so.”

        Around us is a blur of dewy leaves, twisted branches and hanging moss. An eagle brushes past, his eyes on the horizon.

I stare up at the blue sky. “I want to fly.” I don’t remember forming the words, but they are there, stretching between us.

        Bert holds out his hand, his goofy grin intact. But a voice interrupts us.

        “What are you doing?”

        Peter.

        I wince and hope he doesn’t yell at Bert. I wouldn’t want guests traipsing through my room, not that I have one.  And since his place is tucked high in a tree, I doubt he is the hospitable type.

        “I’m sorry.” I turn around.

        “I was just showing her around. Like you told me.” Bert bites his lip. All the lost boys seem to both look up at Peter Pan and fear him. I wonder who chose him to be the leader.

        We stand in a tight circle. Peter raises his eyebrows. “That’ll be enough, Bert.”

        “Yes, sir.” Bert starts to float into the air. He glances down at me.

        “Thank you. I enjoyed the tour.”

        “You haven’t seen anything yet. There’s still the fairy circle and the lake-”

        Peter folds his arms. “Goodbye, Bert.”

        The boy’s cheeks redden, but only for a second. He shrugs and flies away, his wild laughter trailing behind him.

        I take a step away from the lost boy’s leader. And once again I wish I knew how to fly. The open sky suddenly seems more inviting than this tree.

        “Where is Kelvin?”

        Peter startles at my question. He taps his fingers against his leg. “I think he went on an adventure with the other boys.”

        “Adventure?”

        “He’ll be fine. I know that I am not the first person to tell you he will be okay. He is a lost boy now, this is his home.”

        I shake my head. “No, it isn’t. We are both going home tonight.”

        “Of course you are. But since it is still only morning, would you want to learn how to fly?”

        He must have overheard my conversation with Bert. Excitement flows through me. “Yes! Please.”

        Peter slowly lifts into the air. I watch him, wondering if I will ever be able to do it by myself.

        “Try.”

        “How?”

        He smirks. “How? I, um-it has been so long. It is easy. Just believe that you can fly.”

        “That will never work. There has to be something else.”

        “There is magic in Neverland’s air. If you believe you can fly, you will.”

        When I was little, I used to pretend I was one of the rich girls strolling through the parks with their big dresses and lacy parasols. I would imagine that I was in a warm, lit room with a glass chandelier above me. Servants would hand me a steaming cup of tea and a plate of sweets. But it never happened.

        There is a line between fantasy and reality, wishes and logic. Maybe Peter is right. Maybe the line is blurred in Neverland.

        Felix, Kelvin and I flew over London. We passed the stars and moon, and somehow made it to this island that time can’t touch. If all this is true, than there must be magic.

        I can fly. I just have to believe.

        It sounds too simple, but maybe that is the point.

        I take a wild leap into the air, rising higher than I ever did underground. But gravity jerks me back. Peter swoops down and grabs my hand, tugging me into the sky.

        The wind rustles around us as we leave green behind and soar into blue.

        Peter laughs. He doesn’t chuckle, he doesn’t smirk. He laughs.

        And so do I.

        We spin into the sky. A white cloud trails beside us. I brush my fingers through the fluffy wisps. Far down below us is Neverland. Green and sprawling and beautiful.

        This is magic. This is freedom.

        I forget hunger and dirt and poverty. I forget Big Ben’s mournful chime and the crowded streets of London. I forget the parents I never knew and the daydreams that never happened.

        I am a bird soaring through the air. I am a star twinkling in the dark sky. I am a girl-poor and forgotten-flying above a magical world, anchored only by Peter Pan’s hand.

        But then his fingers loosen.

        And I fall.