I can’t believe it.

Some guy from, like, a hundred years ago published Wendy’s dream. Or a version of it at least. Peter and Wendy, he called it, or what was…the other title? According to Nurse Johnson, it wasn’t a novel first, it was a play or some shit, did it on stage.

Oh, and here’s something else I just learned. John had a copy of it. The whole time.

“Why?” I asked him after we left the institution, “why didn’t you tell me?”

“About what?”

“The book.”

“Honestly?” John asked, “I didn’t think it was relevant.”

“You didn’t think it was relevant?”

“No. You were four years old, Michael. I was ten, and even I forgot the guy was real.”

“Where is it?” I asked him. “The book, where is it?”

When we got back to John’s house, he thumbed a row of hardbacks on his living room bookshelf. He found the book, then tossed it to me. “You can keep it if you like. I’ve never read it.”

“You’ve never read it?”

John shook his head. “No,” he said, then came clean. “I’ve thumbed through it a few times, but other than that, it doesn’t really interest me.”

That didn’t make sense to me. “How is that…even possible?”

“Michael, I was ten. You were four.”

“Yes, we’ve been over this.”

“Fine, I’ll put it this way.” John thought about it, then said. “If you were in a horrific car accident that changed your life forever and someone gave you the traffic cam footage as a fuckin’ birthday present, how often would you watch it?”

He had a point, and there was pain in his eyes. John disappeared into the hall, then returned with a small black case. He set it on an open shelf, next to his paperbacks, then pulled out a long black pipe and a tiny jar of green buds. I watched John for a bit, then ran a hand over the book’s green cover. I read the title three times and pulled back the cover. “How much do you remember, John?”

John lit the pipe, then blew white mist at the ceiling. “More than I want to discuss right now.”

I went back to the author’s name. J.M. Barrie. It didn’t ring a bell. That…didn’t make sense. My gut told me to ask John, but he didn’t really seem in the mood.

John took two more long hits, relaxed in his recliner, then closed his eyes.

I read the opening paragraphs, recognized my mother’s description and Wendy’s name. I marked my place with my finger, then looked at John. “You going to bed?”

“Nope,” he replied, eyes still closed, “just preparing…”

I didn’t know what he meant by that, but I didn’t push him.

Ten minutes later, I looked at John. “Who is this guy?”

“Who?”

“The author?”

John shrugged. “Just some writer, I don’t know, why?”

“This isn’t us, but…at the same time, it is.”

“I don’t understand.”

“He got our names right, John,” I flipped back to page 2. “‘Wendy came first, then John, then Michael.’ That is us in perfect order. The house. The layout. The way people saw Mom and Dad, he got all of that right, but it’s also…wrong. The time, the language…what the fuck…is a shilling? Like…we didn’t grow up in London, did we?”

John grinned at my question, then handed me the pipe. “Good, you’re ready.”