Peter swallowed. "I was cold, alone…" He stopped, angry now. "I can't remember! No one knows where I came from! You told me I was a foundling!"

' I found you," Wendy cut him short. "I did." She took a deep breath to steady herself. "Peter, you must listen to me now. And believe. You and I played together as children. We had wonderful adventures together. We laughed, we cried." She paused. "And we flew."

Peter tried unsuccessfully to pull away. Something unpleasant was stirring inside him, something beyond the reach of his memory.

Granny Wendy bent close, her face only inches from his own. "The stories are true. I swear to you. I swear it by everything I adore. Peter-don't you realize who you are?"

She released him then and pried open the book from between his fingers. She paged through it desperately and stopped. She tapped the page.

Peter Banning looked down. The book lay open to an illustration of Peter Pan, legs spread, hands on hips, head cocked back as he prepared to crow…

This is a story about Peter Pan. It is not the story everyone knows, the one written by J. M. Barrie and read by wise children and curious adults for more than eighty years. It is not even one of the lesser-known Pan stories. It is too new for that, having not come about until just recently and well after J. M. Barrie's time. This is its first formal telling.

This story is not just about Peter Pan either-no more so than any we know. It is about a good many things besides Peter himself, though he would be the last to admit that there were tales of any sort worth telling that did not concern themselves with him. The title, for instance, clearly indicates that the story is about someone other than just Peter. James Hook is central to the telling of any full-blown Pan tale, for every hero needs his villain. Prospective readers might also correctly point out that Peter Pan has already been used as a title and should not be pressed into service a second time simply to satisfy purists.

This story begins many years after the first, long after Wendy, John, and Michael returned from their first adventure in Neverland. It is not concerned with Peter Pan as a boy, for all those tales have long since been told. It considers instead what happened when the unthinkable came to pass-when Peter Pan grew up.

I relate this story to you as it was told to me, having tried the best I could to keep the details straight. I have embellished at times and commented when I could not make myself stay silent. All writers, I fear, have that failing.

My apologies to J. M. Barrie for taking license with his

vision and to others who have done so successfully before me.

This story is about children and grown-ups and the dangers that arise when the former become the latter.

It opens at a grade-school play.

"Shhhh!"

The hushing rose in small bursts as the overhead lights clicked off, and the low din of voices engaged in idle conversation quickly died away. The members of the audience, young and old alike, straightened in their seats and faced uniformly toward the stage. There was activity behind the curtain, but it quickly faded into small squeaks and giggles. The curtain lifted slowly on a darkened setting, and the only light in the crowded multipurpose room of Franklin Elementary came from the green neon exit sign over the exterior wall door.

Moira Banning, elegant and poised, every strand of her short-cropped chestnut hair in place, glanced past eleven-year-old Jack toward the back of the room, a hint of irritation flashing in her green eyes. Still no sign of Peter.

Next to her, Jack Banning sat with his eyes facing front, waiting patiently for the play to begin. He was a small, elfin-featured boy with chocolate-brown hair and eyes and a tentative smile that suggested he was just a little doubtful about something.

Lights came up on the stage, and from behind the audience a spotlight. A cardboard replica of Big Ben was caught in the narrow beam, the Roman numerals of its face pasted rather crookedly into place. From off stage, a scratchy recording of deep, sonorous chimes began to play.

Bong. Bong. Bong…

Moira smiled and nudged her son, who squirmed away.

The chimes finished and a ticking began. Tick-tock, tick-tock. More stage lights came on, faintly illuminating a bedroom in which children slept. Two beds with covers concealed the number of sleepers from those one or two in the audience who didn't already know the story of Peter Pan. A chest of toys, some bookshelves, and a bureau completed the set.

Then Peter Pan appeared, flying into view from off stage, suspended on a wire that shimmered like damp spider's webbing in the glare of the spotlight. Moira glanced past Jack once again, scanning the back of the room. Jack didn't need to ask who she was looking for or what the chances were of his dad being there.

On stage, the second-grader who had won the favor of the play director and been given the choice role of Peter landed in a stumbling run that ended with his legs folding and his body skidding a half-dozen feet. Laughter rose from the audience. He scrambled up hurriedly, cast a chagrined look in the direction of the laughter, and turned toward the bureau.

Immediately a flashlight beam directed from off stage darted erratically after him. Jack looked smug. Tinkerbell, of course. Peter rummaged through the bureau drawers and pulled out a piece of black cloth cut out in the shape of a boy. He held it up toward the audience so that no one would miss the significance of his discovery. Then he shut the bureau drawer behind him with the flashlight beam still darting about, and instantly the light winked out. Jack nodded solemnly. Tinkerbell was trapped. Just like in the book.

Peter sat down with his shadow, played around with it for a bit as if trying to fasten it on, then threw it down rather dramatically and burst into fake tears.

Jack rolled his eyes. Time for Maggie.

His sister popped up on cue, tossing aside the bed covers, her strawberry-blond hair bouncing, her eyes wide. She was wearing her favorite cream nightshirt with violet hearts. "Boy, why are you crying?" she called out loud enough to be heard in the next county. Only seven years old maybe, but no one was going to ignore her tonight!

"I'm not crying," Peter insisted.

Wendy, whom Maggie was playing, jumped down from the bed and rushed over to pick up the discarded shadow. Kneeling, she pretended to sew it back on. When she was done, she rose and stepped back expectantly.

Peter stood up and bowed politely from the waist, one hand crooked in front, one behind. A faerie greeting. Wendy immediately bowed back.

"What is your name?" Peter asked.

"Wendy Angela Moira Darling. What's yours?"

"Peter Pan."

"Where do you live?"

"Second to the right and straight on till morning. I live in Neverland with the Lost Boys. They are the children who fall out of their prams when their nurses aren't looking. I'm their captain."

Wendy beamed and clapped her hands. "What fun! Are there no girls?"

"Oh, no," replied Peter, shaking his head emphatically. "Girls are much too clever to fall out of their prams."