The next six days saw Hook busier than he ever remembered being. He called the technical school but after careful counseling, they recommended a computer beginner's course that would help him learn the functions of the strange machines that everyone seemed to use.

Each day, every hour – there was something new to learn. Money was all paper now, and not individual bank notes, but green and uniform with strange markings on both sides. He found he could insert the plastic cards into a machine called an ATM, and it spit out paper money at him in hundreds and fifties. Money could buy everything, but tax still existed. There were no annoying tax collectors, but everyone seemed content to buy the fees when the nice people behind the small machines asked.

Hook had rather enjoyed the days when tax collectors were threatened and the sheriff had to appear to quell angry mobs, but this new system seemed to run without a lot of hitches. Food and clothes and other things could be purchased with paper money or cards, and everyone bought them without causing a fuss.

There were so many stops now, too. Enormous buildings, as big as Saint Paul's Cathedral in London, but not for cowering in fear before God. No, in huge buildings, lots of people strolled up and down narrow passages of things for sale and pulled metal carts to choose what they wanted. Most of the doors to the shops opened once Hook got near, and though he had suspected witchcraft at first, soon he learned that some doors opened by themselves and some didn't. He had to wait and see for each door and watch other people, of course.

Most of the day was spent copying other people, imitating what they did in stores and tavern-like places for food. Hook copied their bored look, the way they seemed so impatient in a world that moved so fast.

On day two, Hook went to a store filled with something called electronics and bought a flat thing called a laptop. After five hours working on it and nearly smashing it in frustration, Hook got it plugged into the wall and running. He read the entire booklet that came with it, and while he didn't understand a great deal of it, he marked the parts he understood and studied the pictures intently.

On day three, he went to the beginner's class and took his laptop with him. He sat in the front row, wrote down everything the teacher, a pretty woman in a scandalously short skirt, said and kept his mouth shut. Once he figured out more, he would ask more, but he was stuck in the early stages now – like a child trying to learn all about the new world.

"Thank you immensely," he told the teacher at the end of the class. "Your information was invaluable."

She gave a short laugh. "Oh, well, thank you. You have a charming accent. British?"

"Always," Hook smiled. "With your fair looks and shapely form, you would have been a duchess in the old world."

"Please, Mr. Hook," she blushed, "I'm your teacher. That's hardly appropriate."

But she was flattered and liked him. Hook bowed his head graciously and took his leave.

On day four, following his teacher's instructions, Hook got on the internet. He spent the next thirty-four hours staring at the screen and reading everything he could about the new world. The hotel delivered food and Smee begged him to go out and get a breath of air, but Hook kept reading until he fell into an exhausted slumber where the information pulsed out at him through the screen of the laptop and chased him through dreams.

On day six, Hook learned to drive.

Equipped with his trusty pistol hidden in the pocket of his new suit, Hook made his way to a yellow car, a taxi, which was driven around cities to take people places that didn't have cars. Cars were things that ran on something called gasoline, but gasoline was expensive and a lot of places on the internet were complaining about the high cost.

Apparently, no matter when one lived, everyone was complaining about something. Piracy was still running strong, but in his hours of internet reading, Hook kept finding that people were stealing flat things called DVDs and they didn't look like they were made of gold. But people stole them and the authorities were upset, which Hook thought was ridiculous. Of course, piracy upset the people in charge. It was piracy!

But he charged with confidence to the yellow car and pulled on the handle the way he had seen other people do. The car door opened, and the man inside looked up.

"Hey, man, whatcha doin'?"

Hook pointed the gun in his face.

"Okay, okay!" the driver put his hands up. "You can have the car."

"I don't want the car," Hook told him briskly.

The driver blinked. "Okay, English dude, you can have my money."

"I don't want your money – I have plenty of money," Hook declared. "Move over to the other side."

The driver slid into the other seat, and Hook got into the empty seat. The car looked different from the inside, but Hook shut the door. "You're going to teach me how to drive."

"What?" the driver shrieked.

"I wish to learn to drive this car. You know how to drive this car. Therefore, you should be able to teach me how to drive this car."

"You don't know how to drive a car?"

"I know many things, good sir. Most of them center on commanding a ship. But where I come from, we don't have cars. I would have moved much faster in a car if I had had one. Horses are slower and smell much worse."

"Is this a bit for America's Funniest Home Videos?" the driver asked.

"I don't know what that is, but I will discover it soon," Hook promised. "Now, teach me how to drive this car. If you don't, I shall shoot, hurl you from this car, and drive it myself."

"What?"

"I learned to operate a computer," Hook announced triumphantly. "A car may be bigger, but I don't see any classes being offered for them."

"Of course there are driving classes. Kids take them all the time."

"They allow a little child to drive this big thing?" Hook blinked.

"Well, no, man, but they let them once the kids are sixteen."

"Well, that makes sense," Hook nodded. "By sixteen, a man can marry and become a full sailor. But I am older than sixteen and do not wish to learn with anyone that age. I'm going to drive this car and you will assist me."

The driver glanced outside as if to consider waving for help, and Hook noticed for the first time the letters and numbers below the window.

"You take money to let people ride in here," Hook realized. "Like a post coach. Oh, I've been doing this all wrong. Do you want money to let me drive this car? Is that better?"

The driver hesitated. "Ah – how much money?"

Hook reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of hundreds. "I've seen that cars cost many thousands of these things you call dollars, but surely a few hundred would permit me to drive this machine. Would four hundred suffice?"

The driver held out his keys. "Put the gun away. You'll need both hands to drive."

Driving a car was more difficult than steering a ship or riding a horse. There were two things for Hook to push with his feet, and he had to remember which was which, and the fact that the driver kept screaming did not help Hook's concentration.

"Oh, we're going to die!" the driver hollered as Hook pulled the car into the four-lane road.

"We most certainly are not," Hook clutched the wheel with both hands. "I've come this far and I will not – good heavens, what is that infernal noise? It's like a bunch of geese squawking."

"It's horns!" the driver cried. "People are honking at you."

"Are they?" Hook felt surprised. "What does it mean?"

"It means for you to get the hell out of the way. You're only going fifteen miles an hour."

"That sounds quite fast. At that speed, one could go from Warwick to Hampton Court in just –"

"Step on the gas pedal! No, that's the brake. It slows you down. The other one. Stomp on it."

Hook desperately hit the petal as hard as he could, and the car went so fast he could barely breathe.

The next few minutes were agonizing as Hook tried not to hit other cars and the driver kept swearing at him. But after a bit, Hook began to get the hang of it. Pressing down on the gas in different ways made the car go faster or slower. The other pedal slowed the car until it stopped altogether. The white lines on the road were for keeping all the cars going straight, but other cars were allowed to turn off on side roads or come onto Hook's road.

It was so much neater than the dirt lanes and alleys of his world. Back then, mud and ruts had slowed traffic, and everyone wandered and pushed, and carts had to stop for the lord's carriage and be careful not to run over little children. Accidents and broken wheels were a normalcy there; dogs were often hit and limped on three legs; cats dashed across alleys only to get smashed. The poorer people would take the dead animals to make nasty stew, and the remains would get thrown into the street along with human waste, mud, dish water, and threadbare rags.

But this kind of movement, in this fast car – Hook felt excitement pump in his veins as he pushed the car faster and faster.

"Slow down!" the driver screamed, sounding like a little girl more every moment. "This ain't no Fast and the Furious. You're going to get us all killed."

"I will have you keel-hauled if you don't stop blubbering," Hook said in his best captain's voice. "You will conduct yourself appropriately, even though you are from the servant class, and tell me why there are so many sizes of cars on this road."

"Different cars are for different things. Jeez, man, what century are you from?"

"None of your concern," Hook was crisp. "Now, I would like to know what all these knobs and buttons are for. May I touch them or are they for a crew to maintain such as jibs and bowlines?"

"Look out!" the driver yelled, and Hook had to twist the wheel sharply to avoid hitting a car that was as big as a cottage and felt it could take up half the road.

He drove for over an hour, and when he finally got out, he had to pay the man a thousand dollars because the driver was hysterical and kept threatening to go to the police.

"You will behave yourself," Hook said as he gave the paper money to the driver, "or I will be forced to have the sheriff take you to the asylum. You don't want to go there, now, do you?"

"You belong in an asylum," the driver yelled. He slammed his door and drove off, leaving Hook to call,

"If you were a proper gentleman, I'd challenge you to a duel for that."

The driver shoved his hand out the window and closed down all the fingers of his hand except the middle one.

"Quite an odd servant class," Hook mused as he walked back to the hotel. "These folks used to have gumption and spirit. A servant lass of twelve could out-drink a grown lady any day. These servants are quite too soft and easily scared."

He returned back to his room, took a refreshing bath, and then went to the computer to learn about all the words he had learned while on his exhilarating drive.

Smee had not had as glorious a time as his captain. The poor short man spent his days in the hotel room, leaving only when the cleaning servants came to tidy up. Smee would huddle in a corner of the lobby until Hook returned, and nothing could induce the smaller man to go outdoors without Hook.

"You have to stop being such a coward," Hook roared at him on the sixth night over marvelous chicken roasted a warm brown and covered with sweet sauce. "We figured out the island. Now we have this world to figure out. Once we do, we can go find the boy."

"Then what, capt'n?" Smee took off his spectacles and wiped them with his napkin.

"Then we'll find a ship and get back to pirating. Or whatever is real pirating in this world. I don't want to steal those DVD things. I saw some in a shop today. They look like books, but they don't have pages inside, just thin round plates. Stop sniveling and eat."

"Too much food," Smee sighed. "Eating all this and not a bit of rum in sight to ease the pain. Oh, I wish I were dead."

"Keep up that caterwauling, and I'll make your wish come true," Hook threatened. "You've done nothing but whine since we got here. I will find a good whip somewhere and put it to use if you don't stop."

"It's all devilry," Smee gulped. "Pure and simple."

"Wait!" Hook held up his hand as the TV caught his attention. The sound was turned down, but he grabbed the small black box, called a remote, he had learned, and turned up the sound.

"Police are still investigating the case," a woman's voice reported over the news. "The boy was found over a week ago and is still under severe traumatic stress."

A picture of Peter came on the TV. Hook stared at his pale face, hollow eyes, small frame under a plain gray shirt. He looked like he had died several days ago, like there was nothing left inside.

"The boy answers to the name of Peter," the woman's voice went on, "but no other information is known at present. Those with information, please call the number below."

The picture of Peter disappeared, but Hook kept watching the screen, hoping he would come back.

H&H&H&H&H

"Do you want to draw again?" Ms. Brante asked gently.

Peter shook his head no.

"Why not?" the woman asked. "You drew such pretty pictures of fairies and pirates and –"

"They said they weren't real," Peter whispered.

"They're not," she said. "None of those things are real."

He straightened a little, but he didn't look at her. They kept talking to him, saying the same things over and over, and he was tired. He had never agreed with adults before – such big, stupid things that couldn't fly – but now he decided it was easier to go along with whatever they said.

"Remember what we've talked about the last few days," Ms. Brante kept going. "You've changed your mind a lot in all our stories. You said you fought a man and cut off his hand."

Peter looked at her, waiting.

"But then you said he carried you on his ship and he had both hands. People don't grow back hands after they've been cut off, do they?"

Peter swallowed hard. "Yes, he did, somehow," he wanted to say, but he had argued about this with them before.

"You pretend you're Peter Pan from the fairytale, but you aren't," she kept going, so sweet and soft he wanted to cry. "That's not real. Fairies aren't real."

"Please don't say that," he said hoarsely.

"You're safe here, Peter. That man that hurt you – he can't get you in here. You call him Captain Hook, but he has a real name. He did bad things to you, didn't he?"

"No, yes . . . I don't know."

"Did he hit you?"

"Only a few times," Peter dropped his head.

"Did he do other things? Did he hit you hard enough to make you bruise or bleed? Did he push you to the floor? Did he make you do things that made you uncomfortable?"

Peter nodded. "Yes – he, he –"

"What?" Ms. Brante leaned forward. "What did he do to you?"

"He made me learn to read."

She sat back in her chair, and a small frown of disapproval appeared on her face. "Peter, he didn't teach you to read. He hurt you – he kept you locked away, didn't he? Men like him find small boys and abuse them, sometimes kill them. Help us catch him so he won't kill any other boys."

"The Lost Boys are gone," Peter protested.

She looked sterner still. "We've gone over and over this. You are not Peter Pan. Neverland does not exist. Say it with me. Say the truth. You are not Peter Pan."

He watched her with quiet horror, and then he confessed, "I'm not Peter Pan."

"Neverland doesn't exist."

He swallowed. "Neverland doesn't exist."

"You didn't ever have a fairy named Tinkerbell."

Peter's eyes pricked painfully, but he obediently repeated, "I didn't ever have a fairy named Tinkerbell."

"Captain Hook is not real either," Ms. Brante prompted.

"Captain Hook is not real," Peter's tone was dull, lifeless.

"Now you're going to tell the truth, and tell me who you are. Who are you?"

He opened his mouth, and then he caught sight of papers on the edge of the desk, the same papers everyone brought in whenever they talked with him. The papers were full of scribbles, but Peter recognized some of the shapes.

They were the same ones Hook had made him learn. In the cabin of the ship, with the bunny in the other room – Hook was standing there, still with his hook, not his hand. Hook had been mean then, making him learn those letters. Hook had spanked him – ow, that had hurt. Hook made him sit on hard chairs after he got through spanking, and the lessons went on.

But Hook hadn't been all bad. Hook had helped him feel better when Peter worried about growing up, and Hook had saved him from drowning when the fairy-dust didn't work.

Next to Ms. Brante, the top of the papers had five letters on them: P-E-T-E-R.

Hook had made him learn to spell his name, and Peter had been worried about Tinkerbell and the bunny and getting away, but one thing he knew – Hook would not be ignored. Hook had been unbending then, and when the island started to die, Hook knew what to do.

Hook would find him eventually; Hook had to.

Peter looked at Ms. Brante with defiant eyes.

"I'm Peter Pan! I've always been Peter Pan. And once Hook finds you and sees what you've done, he's going to make you walk the plank!"

Ms. Brante's face fell. She gathered up her papers and got up out of her chair.

"That's right," Peter felt his resolve building. "You go away. You go hide because once I find Hook, we're going to blow this place up. And then we're going to find a ship and fly away from here, back to my island. I'm the king of my island – it's all for me!"

Ms. Brante shut the door, muffling Peter's taunts. "Well, I tried," she told the doctor who was watching through the one-way mirror. "You said he might do better with a woman's touch, but he didn't."

Dr. Mills sighed. "Not good here. No one's come forward to claim the boy."

"I have the forms ready for the institution," Ms. Brante flipped through the pages. "I'll get ready for the transfer tomorrow. Sign here and date."

"Poor kid," Dr. Mills signed the sheet. "Wish we could have helped him."

"Nothing can be done now," Ms. Brante was calm and emotionless. "I'll get a van to drive him up there tomorrow. I'll go along – I have several cases to check up on there."

"Good luck to you," Dr. Mills looked back at the boy who was standing up and furiously beating his arms against the air. "Wish you could fly away from here, Peter. I really do."

H&H&H&H&H

Something moved in Smee's room, and he jerked away with a cry. It was Hook who marched over to the window and flung open the curtains.

"Wake up!" Hook ordered.

Dull dawn light flooded the hotel room.

"Capt'n?" Smee reached for his spectacles.

"Yes – 'Captain'," Hook smirked. "The glorious, industrious, unbeatable Captain Hook. I've figured out where they're holding Peter and how I can get him out. Get up – get dressed. We have a plunder to find and his name is Peter Pan!"