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            Wendy pulled weeds until the sun began to set, moving steadily closer to the captivating edge of the forest. For all the time that she had worked, the amount of weeds she'd pulled was a bit meager. Her basket was half empty. She yawned, vaguely wondering if someone was planning on coming out and "collecting" her, or if she'd have to end this punishment on her own.

            Deep inside, Wendy hoped nobody would come get her. She had always wanted to spend a night outside of Bertram's. And right near the forest… Wendy shivered, thrilled by the very idea of it all. Or perhaps she shivered because a frigid breeze had just wafted by. She pulled the collar of her starched, once-white Bertram's shirt up, and untied the uniform blue bow in her hair to cover her neck with the honey-colored tresses.

            Wendy looked at her watch, the one her mother had given her as a going away present with the hope Wendy would use it to get to her classes on time. It was late, and if no one came soon, she'd miss the last of supper. Supper. She shouldn't have mentioned it to herself; her stomach growled. Wendy sighed and stood up, picking up the basket near her feet. It was so much darker than she had realized, now that her eyes had to focus to larger scenery.

             With a cautious step towards the large, stone building, Wendy found she was aware of every sound around her. Every cricket's chirp, the rustle of the leaves in the slight wind, her own feet on the soft grass, each was louder than life. It reminded her of the night in Neverland when the Lost Boys had been hunting and forgotten poor Wendy, lost on the shores near the mermaids. She'd been frightened, eerily in tune with her surroundings. She had been able to see the mermaids beneath the dark water, shimmering tails silently bobbing in and out of the water. The dark silhouette of Captain Hook's ship loomed in the near distance and she could only imagine the horrible things he'd do to her once he caught her, his wicked hook poised above her head, polished to a shine that mothers rarely achieved on their valuable candlesticks. His arctic eyes suddenly would flash crimson red and she'd know, with every bone in her body shaking, she would be at his mercy.

            A loud crack came from the virtually quiet forest, the telltale snap of a twig that appeared in all of the storybooks. Wendy spun around with a loud gasp.

            Nobody.

            Of course there was nobody, she told herself, feeling silly. Scared by her own story of Hook, how childish. Wendy laughed nervously and reminded herself how Peter had flown down to her and shown her the way back to the Hideout. The Lost Boys had been so ashamed of leaving their mother by herself that they gave her every prize they'd gotten during their hunt; two slain rabbits, a live mouse, and a banana bunch.

            The thought Wendy had been trying to keep locked away escaped. Disconcertingly, a tiny, authoritative voice told her, "There are no Lost Boys at Bertram's. There is no Peter Pan in England. You are alone here." It upset Wendy, and she began to move at a quicker pace towards the school. Neverland instincts kept her from running. It was a lesson Peter taught all his boys, and of course, Wendy. Never run. It – whatever is chasing you – will most certainly catch you that way. Hide, fly, duck into a convenient cave, but never run.

            Another silence shattering noise came from the darkness behind her. She fought the urge to look back, another tiny voice added to her thoughts.

            "See what it is. You can't fight what you don't know."

            Another chimed in, "Just go. It's dark, it's late, and you will get to Bertram's in minutes if you just go." They began to fight in her head, a battle of instinct against gut feeling against nature against instinct. Wendy dropped the basket, slamming her hands over her ears, doing nothing but trapping the voices, making them louder. Fear overran what the little Wendys had to say. She turned around.

            She watched in horror as a shadowy figure stumbled out of the forest. Too large to be a wild animal, and most definitely standing on two legs, it held onto a tree for balance. It glanced up at Wendy, expression barely visible, but one she recognized as a plea for help. The shape fell forward, and Wendy feared greatly that it was dead. She became a mother, a worrier for anyone despite their intentions, and ran to the dim form, which lay curled around itself in pain and weakness.

            The lump of creature slowly took a shape as she dashed towards it. It was a person, a grown man, a man who was hurt, disheveled. He looked as if he hadn't seen a mirror in years. He looked as if he hadn't seen another person in years. The only word to give him, besides bloodied or hurt, was overgrown. His hair was long and tangled, and his beard was uncut. The poor man seemed to resemble the men in pictures who'd been living on a deserted island for years upon years.