Hey, readers! Here is the next chapter! I apologize in advance. It isn't as long as the first. That is because I am catching a plane to go overseas in a few hours and I only had a short amount of time to write this. I won't get a chance to upload again until I get back which is in one week's time. Anyway, I hope you like the chapter. Feel free to make my day by leaving a review! ;D Tell me what you think about the story so far!

John's POV

I was lying on my back on the plush lounge in our family room, watching the ceiling fan travel in slow, lazy circles as it blew cool air on my face. A sense of relief fell over me for the first time in months. I didn't feel like I was standing by helplessly anymore, doing nothing as each beat of Wendy's heart brought her closer to the end. We had a plan to save Wendy. A plan that would save Wendy. For the first time since Wendy's diagnosis, I felt hopeful.

My eyes started to drift shut as my breathing evened out. I was almost asleep when a splitting scream filled the house, bouncing off the walls and echoing in my ears. My eyes flashed open and I jolted into a sitting position. Heavy footsteps sounded overhead as my father ran down the hallway.

"What's wrong?" I heard him shout.

I knew exactly what was wrong. Bolting from the family room, I hit the staircase at a run, bounding up the steps three at a time.

"Wendy!" Mother's frantic cry filled my ears as I burst through the door to Wendy's bedroom. "She's gone!" Tears were streaming down her face as she looked around the room wildly, as if Wendy would suddenly appear from behind the curtains or crawl out from under the bed.

"What do you mean she's gone? How could she possibly be gone?" My father asked, his eyes wide with alarm. Deep lines were etched into the skin around his mouth and forehead. His once bright eyes had been reduced to dull grey orbs. In the last few months, he had seemed to have aged ten years with worry.

"She isn't here. She's not in the house!" Mum cried.

"That is not possible," Father said. "Where could she have gone?"

"I've checked the entire floor. She isn't here!" Mother shriek, worry and desperation cracking her voice. Her hands covered her face and her thin shoulder shook. "She isn't here," she repeated, her words barely above a whisper.

Across from her, my father collapsed onto Wendy's bed, his expression helpless. He looked lost and afraid.

"Mother," I said softly. Walking up to her, I laid a gentle hand on her arm. "Wendy is safe."

Lifting her head, she looked at me through blurred, tear-stained eyes, just noticing I was in the room. "What are you saying, John?" she croaked out, her voice thick.

"Wendy is fine," I told her, trying to keep my tone as calm and reassuring as possible. I felt the pressure of my father's stare boring into me from across the room. "You are right: she isn't in the house. She has been taken somewhere to keep her alive. To stop her from dying."

"What do you mean she has been taken?" she shrilled in alarm, her eyes widening until they resembled saucers.

I held my hands up in a placating gesture. "Everything thing is alright. Trust me," I begged.

Father jumped off the bed, standing quickly. "John, what are you talking about? Tell me where she is this instant!" he demanded. His face was hard as he stared at me.

Just as I opened my mouth to speak, Michael wandered into the room, obviously woken up by all the shouting that was taking place. He rubbed his sleepy eyes with the back of his hand. His raggedy teddy bear was clutched under his arm. Even after all these years, he still had it. "Why is everyone yelling?" he asked, yawning. He looked around the room, his eyes landing on Wendy's empty bed. "Where's Wendy?"

Turning my back on my parents, I walked over, taking his small hand in mine. Crouching down until we were level, I said, "She's gone with Peter."

"Peter?" Michael exclaimed. "Peter was here?"

I nodded. "Yes. He has taken her back to Neverland."

Michael's mouth dropped open into a perfect circle, his face a mixture of shock and wonderment. "Really?"

"John," my father's voice boomed, cutting of whatever I had been about to say. "What are you talking about?!"

Taking a deep breath, I turned to face the fearful eyes of my father. He regarded me as if I was crazy. "You need to take a seat. Both of you," I said.

"What is the meaning of-?"

"Sit," I ordered, interrupting my mother.

Her mouth snapped shut and her eyes widened at my tone. Surprisingly, she didn't yell at me for taking to her that way and moved to sit on the end of Wendy's bed. I suppose she was too shocked and worried to be thinking straight at the moment. Father gave me a cautious look before joining her.

"Do you remember that night the two of you came home and found the three of us raving about a magical place where nobody aged," I began, my hand still in Michael's.

Mother's face twisted in concentration as she thought back. Her face changed into one of confusion as she recalled the night. "Yes," she said, not understanding my point. "We had just gotten home from a party and you children were talking at a million miles an hour about some adventure you had just had. It was something about flying boys and pirates. I told you it was a just a story-that it wasn't real."

"But it was," I said. "Everything we told you was the truth."

My father stared at me as if I was one step away from landing myself in the metal asylum. "It was a story, John. Something you kids made up."

I shook my head, wondering how I would ever get them to believe me. "We didn't make it up, I swear."

"Stop it," Mother said harshly, her face cold. "Stop making up stories and tell us where Wendy is."

"I'm trying to." My tone urged them to believe me. "That night you were out, a boy flew through flew our window, chasing after his shadow. His name was Peter."

"John!" my father barked.

"Listen to me!" I yelled. Rushing on before he could silence me again, I said, "Peter came from a place called Neverland: an island where nobody ever grows up. He sprinkled pixie dust on us and taught us how to fly. Together we flew to the island where we danced with a Native American tribe, met mermaids and defeated pirates." Even the words sounded insane to my own ears.

Mother's eyes filled with tears. "Why are you doing this?" she asked.

My heart pinched at the sight of her crushed face. "I'm not lying to you. It was real. Every last bit," I promised.

She shook her head, tears falling onto her cheeks. "It's not, John. It's not," she sobbed.

"I can prove it," I declared.

My father look at me sadly, his face defeated. "I think the stress of Wendy's ordeal has finally taken its toll on you. Please," he begged softly. "Just stop. You are confused and quite possibly hallucinating."

"Just listen to me. I can prove to you that what I am saying is the truth."

Releasing Michael's hand, I strode over to the dresser, throwing the doors open. Dropping to my knees, I rifled through the mass of fallen clothes that lay on the bottom of the cupboard, searching for the small jar that I knew was here somewhere. Behind me, my mother sobbed, sure I had lost my mind. The sound broke my heart. My finger closed around cool glass. I stepped back, the glass jar clutched in my hand. A tiny amount of gold powder had settled on the bottom, barely as quarter of a teaspoon. It was the remains we had found on the vanity table the morning after we had returned from Neverland, reminding us that the adventure had really happened. I just prayed there was enough.

Unscrewing the lid, I upended the jar over my head. The last few flakes of fairy dust drifted down onto my hair. Up, I thought.

Mother let out a shriek as my feet left the floor, nearly falling of the bed. I floated higher and Michael ran over, tugging on my feet. A smile was stretched across his young face.

My father blinked repeatedly, obviously not believing what he was seeing. "H-How can this be real?" he stammered.

"It is all real," I insisted. "Peter has taken Wendy to back to Neverland where she cannot age; therefore, she won't die. They are going to find a cure and then, when she is healthy again, she is coming home."

"See, Mummy," Michael said. "John isn't crazy."

Mother's gaze focussed on me, unwavering. "How?" she breathed as the last of the fairy dust wore off, dropping me to the floor like a bag of rocks.

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