When someone is lost, it's because there's a place where they normally belong—one where people miss them and never stop looking for them. But me and the other boys have never belonged anywhere but here. No one misses us, and there sure as hell isn't anyone out there looking for us. So I’m not sure why they call us lost.

We know we came from somewhere—we weren’t born at the Neverland School for Lost Boys—the only question is where. Not that I care to know—if my mother didn’t want me bad enough to make sure I stayed with her, why would I? —but the younger boys who wish we had a mother sometimes ask me. I'm old enough to know that storks don't deliver babies to random couples, and even if they did, a stork would never drop an innocent baby—or eleven—into the care of Fred Croc and his wife Delia. But I still don’t have the answers they’re looking for.

 "How long does it take to wash your dirty fuckin' mitts up there?" Croc yells up the stairs. "Get your asses down here pronto!"

The boys and I exchange glances in the rust-framed mirror over the row of sinks in our community bathroom. I hate the fear I can see in their eyes, especially over something as stupid as taking too long to wash their grease-stained hands. Living here is a constant practice in "damned if we do, damned if we don't." We get punished if we take too long to wash up after working our shifts at the body shop, but if we come down for dinner with so much as a smudge, we get punished for that too. If we're lucky, it's being sent to bed without supper. If we're not, we end up with belt marks across our backs.

I wink at them, all younger than me by a couple of years, except for Hook, and speak so that my words don't travel down the stairs. "Dirty work makes dirty hands, am I right, boys?" It’s a play on words because not only is our work literally dirty, it’s also illegal.

 They all snicker and get back to washing and rinsing, the worry erased from their faces for a while longer at least.

Hook rolls his eyes with a shake of his head. "Everything's a joke to you, Pan. When are you gonna grow up? You act like it's normal for kids to be working in a chop shop. This is called a school, but we spend more time busting our asses taking cars apart or putting them back together for a small-time crook than we ever have cracking open our textbooks."

 I shrug. "It might not be normal for other kids, but it's our normal. There's nothing we can do to change it, so we might as well make the best of things." I wipe my hands on a towel that was dingy white at best last week but is now a shade of soiled gray. Looking over at Hook's overgrown black hair as he bends over the sink that's much too short for him, I add, "Besides, growing up doesn't sound like all that much fun to me. At least here we have food and a place to sleep. Growing up means getting banished from Neverland, and who the hell knows what happens to the kids then."

His ice blue gaze snaps up to glare at me through the mirror. He doesn't like the reminder that we don’t know what happened to the older kids who used to live here. Croc tells us that he sends them off to work at a different shop, but he isn’t known for his honesty, so we don’t really believe him. Hook is two years older than me, and currently, the oldest kid in the house. He'll be the next of us to go.

“Doesn’t matter to me,” Hook spits out. “I don’t care where I go, as long as it’s far away from this place.”

I study him and try to figure out what his deal is. This certainly isn’t paradise, but it’s not the worst life I can imagine, either. And, far as I can tell, he has it the best out of all of us. “Says the teacher’s pet.”

His steely eyes narrow on me. “You got something to say, Pan?”

I square up with him, crossing my arms. “Just that I don’t know why you’re bitchin’ about being here when you’re Croc’s favorite. I mean, you’re the one he’s taking under his wing, right? Teaching you how to run the business? That’s what you said he’s doing when he calls you down at night. Or maybe he’s not teaching you anything. Maybe it’s something fun like watching TV together, and you’re lying because he told you not to tell us what you’re really doing.”

The other boys mumble their agreements behind me. We don’t have a television upstairs. Hell, we don’t have anything up here. No books, no toys. Nothing but the beds we sleep on, the dressers that hold what little clothes we have, our imaginations, and each other. Sometimes it’s enough for the boys. Other times, it’s not.

“You talk too much, Pan.”

I smirk. “Yeah, I get that a lot. Doesn’t mean what I’m saying isn’t true, James.”

“Call me that again, asswipe,” he says huskily, “and see if I don’t plant my fist right in your face.”

Before I can tell him to go ahead and try, a tiny thing steps in front of me, fists on hips and eyes throwing green fire. “Touch a single blond hair on his head, and I’ll tell Croc you were the one who took his pack of cigarettes.”

Hook blanches like he’s seen a ghost—even I mentally wince at the little sprite’s threat—but he recovers quick enough. “What the fuck ever, I’m outta here. Smee, Starkey, let’s go.”

He doesn’t bother to wait before turning on his heel and striding out of the bathroom, but he didn’t have to. “Coming, Captain!” they say, and as always, Smee and Starkey follow after Hook like the loyal lapdogs they are, offering apologetic glances at me as they pass.

I give them a small nod. I don’t have a problem with either boy. Something about them is drawn to Hook’s darker… I don’t know what you’d call it. Presence? Attitude? Pissiness? Either way, it’s not something I understand, and the rest of the boys don’t either. They consider me their captain, and rightly so, because I’m the best man for the job. I’m a good and fair leader—all the boys would say so—which is why I don’t make them call me captain even though I am. Unlike Hook who won’t answer to anything else. See? Better.

“Tinker Bell, you shouldn’t have done that. You’re only nine, and I can take care of myself.”

Her usually adorable face screws into an epic scowl. “How about you just say ‘thanks, Tink’ instead of spouting off dumb facts.”

“Thanks, Tink.” I ruffle her white-blond hair the way I imagine an older brother might, earning me a grunt of exasperation as she storms out of the room and calls me a silly ass, her favorite nickname for me. The tinkling of the bell around her ankle fades as she heads downstairs for dinner, and I turn to the remaining six boys: Tootles, Nibs, Slightly, Curly, and the Twins. “Come on, boys, let’s get something to eat.”

We shuffle out of the bathroom together, and as we near the top of the stairs, I feel a tug on my shirt. “Peter, are you gonna sneak out again tonight?”

“Tootles, shhh,” I whisper, stopping the group. “You want Croc to hear? If he finds out, it’s the end of our stories.”

Six pairs of eyes widen, and one of the Twins—I don’t know which because none of us can tell them apart—says, “But we need to know what happens to Cinderella, Peter!”

They’re all whisper-shouting now, some worrying about never knowing if the prince finds Cinderella and the others about what will happen if I’m ever caught sneaking out of the school.

“Lost Boys, listen up.” Using their group name does the trick. They all straighten like little soldiers and await my next command. “No more talking. Tonight will be like any other night. Got it?” In not so many words, I reassured them that I plan to sneak out, that I won’t get caught, and that I’ll bring back another piece of the story they’re dying to hear. That we’re all dying to hear. Even Hook, though he’ll never admit it.

The rest of the night is like any other.

We sit at the long wooden table off the kitchen and eat in silence, using our eyes to carry on entire conversations that Croc and Delia never hear. Afterward, we clear our places and head up the stairs, oldest to youngest, except for Tink who has to stay and clean the pots and kettles and whatever mess Delia made when she prepared our barely edible meal.

The loud ticking of Croc’s ancient pocket watch echoes up the stairwell. “James,” he barks, and we all freeze on the steps.

Hook’s entire body tenses in front of me. Man, he really does hate his first name. I wonder if Croc knows that and uses it on purpose. But that doesn’t make sense if Hook’s his favorite. More likely he doesn’t know, and Hook doesn’t want to tell him because Croc’s temper is known to flare up over the dumbest shit and he’s trying to avoid a beating.

Turning around, Hook takes the couple steps down to my level. “You getting the end of the story tonight?”

“Thought you didn’t care about the stories.”

He looks over and meets my gaze. “I don’t.”

That’s it, that’s all he says. He doesn’t offer anything else. Just stares at me intently, waiting for my answer.

“Yeah,” I say finally. “I am.”

Something flashes in his eyes that I can’t read. Like a mix of sadness and relief, but neither of those things wash with the boy I know. He’s always been a pissy, jealous bastard for as long as I can remember. But since he started hanging out with Croc a couple months ago, he’s been an intolerable asshole. He nods once and continues down the stairs as the boys shift to the right to let him pass.

Croc palms the back of Hook’s neck when he reaches the bottom. “Come on, boy. I’ve got lots to teach you tonight.” Hook glances over his shoulder at me one last time before they disappear into Croc’s office, his expression emotionless like he’s made of stone. Something’s definitely off with him, but I don’t know what.

Slightly pushes past me, followed by the others, jarring me back to the present and my mission at hand: sneaking out undetected. We go through our nighttime routine and get into our beds. Finally, Tink’s bell can be heard as Delia leads her up the stairs. While Tink changes in the bathroom, Delia does a bed check, speaking to us as little as possible. We can feel how much she hates us, and we’re happy to ignore her just as much as she does. Only Tink has to deal with her much.

As soon as Delia leaves, slamming the door at the top of the stairs behind her, I spring out of bed and do my thing. I jimmy open the window with the loose frame, whisper to the boys that I’ll be back soon, and climb up to the flat roof of the building. In minutes, I’ve made my way over to Barrie Street in the neighboring city of London.

A few weeks ago, I was looking for an adventure when I walked under the balcony of the brick house in the middle of this block and heard a woman talking to her kids. But she wasn’t just talking. She’d called it a bedtime story, and it was all about a girl called Snow White and her dwarf friends who all had funny names, just like the Lost Boys. I hid in the bushes and listened to the story floating down to me through the open balcony doors. But she only told them part of the story before telling them it was time for bed, and she’d continue the next night. They complained just like I was doing, but inside my head so I didn’t get caught, and I knew I’d have to come back to hear more.

I also knew I had to tell the boys what I’d heard. No one had ever told us stories. We’d never heard anything like that before, and just as I’d known they would, they totally loved it. So every night since, I’ve returned to the same house to get the next part of whatever story she was telling. I’m not sure what I’m going to do when the weather gets cold and the lady stops opening the balcony doors, but I’ll worry about that then.

As I approach the house under the cover of night, I hear a different voice. A younger one, soft and sweet sounding. “Nana, the longer you squirm, the longer it’s going to take to brush you, you know.” Looking up through the rails of the balcony, I see a gigantic dog shifting its weight from side to side and making unhappy grunts. Well that certainly wasn’t who I—

Then she rises from behind the shaggy beast, and I forget to breathe. The light pouring out from the room surrounds her like it’s protecting her from things that might be hiding in the darkness. I can’t see any details of her face, but she’s already the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.

“Okay, Nana, that’s good for now, you big baby. Go on.”

The dog performs an oafish hop of gratitude before bounding back into the house. The girl laughs with a shake of her head, then leans on the bannister and gazes up at the stars. She runs a hand down her long braid and lets out a sigh like she’s wishing for something. Maybe she wants an adventure, too. I could give her one. I don’t know what it would be, but I know that I would search the earth until I found the right one for her.

As for me, I think I just found mine. She’ll be my greatest adventure yet.

I want to talk to her, to ask her name, for her to ask mine—

“Wendy, dear, come inside now, please.”

“Coming, Mom.” And with that, she disappears from sight.

Wendy… My adventure’s name is Wendy.