VIII.

That night, Peter and I slept on the shore. At dawn, I blinked my eyes awake and slowly slid out of his embrace, careful not to wake him. He stirred, but stayed asleep, and I dove into the next wave, heading for Marooner’s Rock. 

As I swam, I wondered whether Peter may be right—if the prisoners were alive. And I wondered what would be worse—for Hook to create a death prison, or for him to lie about it. The details he spread were gruesome. Was his mind so callous that he could invent such horror, whether in imagination or reality? Somehow the former seemed worse, even if it meant that Tink and the others were alive. We thought that maybe someone would escape, and come back and tell us everything. Set the record straight. But it hadn’t happened. 

As I neare...

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