“Yes, Peter?” She hears her voice as if from very far away.
Peter’s lips curve into a smile, his eyes sparking delight.
“You’re our guest of honor, you should have the first bite.”
He holds a broad leaf out toward her, piled high with meat. She never saw him cut it, but it’s there, steaming into the night, and her stomach growls again.
“Go on. Take it.”
She stands, circling the fire, even though everything in her screams to turn around and run. Peter’s smile is gentle, encouraging. She takes the leaf, heat from the roasted boar soaking through and into her palms.
“That isn’t fair.” Arthur speaks up, standing to glare between her and Peter. “She didn’t help to kill the boar at all. Why should she get the first bite?”
A fresh skin lies draped over Arthur’s shoulders, cut from the boar.
“You didn’t help either,” Bertie pipes up. “It was all Peter.”
Peter turns to beam at Bertie, who puffs up at the attention while Arthur scowls.
“That’s right,” Peter says. “I killed the boar, so I choose who eats first, and I say it’s Wendy.”
She wants to refuse. Her eyes sting, and the hollow ache gnaws at her. She’s so hungry it hurts, and the way Peter looks at her, the bright pinpoints of his eyes—she can’t refuse.
All at once she falls on the meat, stuffing it into her mouth with her bare hands. It burns her lips and her fingers and she doesn’t care. She chews and swallows and it only makes her want more.
“You see?” Peter claps his hands, delighted. “Everyone dig in!”
The boys follow her lead, falling on the meat like ravening wolves, like carrion birds. She finds herself jostling with them, fighting to get more. She claws at a reaching arm, Bertie’s she thinks, shoving him away. All around her is the sound of chewing, chewing, chewing.
Only Peter doesn’t eat, smiling serenely at the frenzy. When she finally slows enough to take a breath and properly look around, she sees Peter isn’t the only one not eating after all. Timothy is nowhere to be seen, and Rufus sits miserably at the edge of the fire’s light, arms wrapped around himself. He’s bare-chested and his ribs press against his skin. There’s a hollowness to him, and the way he holds himself makes her think he’s fighting his own hunger, fighting with himself not to join the feast.
As if her attention draws his, Peter turns to look at Rufus as well. His expression goes through a rapid, flickering change that has nothing to do with the shifting, tricky light of the fire— mischievous, then calculating.
“What’s the matter, Rufus? Why aren’t you eating?” Peter’s voice is sickly-sweet, coaxing, as if he genuinely cares about Rufus and his well-being.
“Not hungry.” Rufus shakes his head, a violent motion. He rocks his body, arms still wrapped around himself, refusing to look up at Peter.
The meat in her stomach turns, fear unsettling her, and she’s afraid she’ll bring it all up again.
“That can’t be true,” Peter says. His smile, like his voice, is honey, but the light in his eyes is dangerous. “It smells so good.”
He tears a piece of meat free, straight from the boar in a way that should burn his skin but doesn’t. He steps closer to Rufus, waving the meat under his nose. Rufus turns his head away, and the firelight catches tears welling in his eyes that he struggles not to let fall.
“I think Rufus feels bad for the boar!” Peter crows the words, turning to flash a grin at the gathered circle of boys, who now shuffle uncertainly around him.
Tension strings the air. She feels it. A storm about to break, something terrible about to happen. Even though she swallowed it all, the meat feels as though it’s sitting in her throat, a lump making it impossible to speak, making it hard to breathe.
“I think Rufus likes boars so much that perhaps he’d rather be one than be a boy. What do you think?”
Peter’s smile is triumphant. His eyes glitter, waiting for a response from his crowd.
“I think…” Arthur hesitates. For all his bluster earlier, she sees uncertainty in him now. This game has rules none of them but Peter understand, and all the boys feel themselves on dangerous ground.
“I think.” Arthur clears his throat, making his voice louder, borrowing confidence from Peter’s encouraging gaze on him and standing straighter. “I think that Rufus should be a boar, and we should hunt him.”
Arthur darts a tentative look at Peter, waiting for approval.
“Yes!” Peter claps his hands again. “Excellent idea.”
Lightning quick, he darts forward, grabbing Rufus by the arm and hauling him to his feet. He spins Rufus around, pushing him, so that he strikes the ground hard on hands and knees, tears spilling free—no longer just miserable, but terrified.
A shout lodges in her throat. She wants to run to Rufus and help him, but she’s rooted in place, rooted like the boar in front of Peter, no choice but to go along. She looks desperately to the circle of boys, similarly frozen around him. Someone ought to go to Rufus and help him, but no one moves. They are all like toys, she thinks, like puppets, and Peter holds all the strings.
“Snort like a boar, Rufus. Run, and we’ll try to catch you!” Peter dances in place, hopping from foot to foot in his delight.
On the next hop, Peter darts forth, slapping Rufus on the flank so he lets out a frightened squeal, a remarkably animal sound. Rufus tries to scramble away, still on his hands and knees, but feet and legs block his way. The boys move, tentative at first, none of them striking Rufus, only keeping him from escaping. But they grow bolder, aiming kicks, trying to grab him. He crawls frantically, trapped between them, begging them to let him go.
His words slur, clumsy, and she can’t tell whether it’s the tears making them thick or something else. Like the shape of his jaw
