It's been a year since the gang returned from Isla Nublar. You're not sure why you started writing Ben. You could just call him, or better yet, text-- but you don't. "I dreamt about you last night
(Nothing amorous, if that's where your teenage mind...
An acorn with the tiniest of dents, as if pierced in its heart by a flying arrow.
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A tarnished thimble.
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"Mom, did you put this in my room?"
You hold the thimble up to her, and she squints to make out what it is.
"You're kidding I assume." Mom is not one to sew. You know that, but you had to ask.
"Where did it come from?" You sound angry, you know, but it's more fear than anger.
"I have no idea."
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{ Are you ever coming back?
To us, that is}
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"By the way, he's finally written to you."
You almost choke on your cheeseburger. "I'm sorry, what?"
"Your friend." Mom looks over at the pile of papers near the front door. "There's a letter addressed to you in today's mail."
You feel the blood leaving your face as you reach to pick up a sage green envelope with your name on it. There is no return address.
Just a torn page from a familiar book:
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//
When people in our set are introduced, it is customary for them to ask each other's age, and so Wendy, who always liked to do the correct thing, asked Peter how old he was.
It was not really a happy question to ask him; it was like an examination paper that asks grammar, when what you want to be asked is Kings of England.
"I don't know," he replied uneasily, "but I am quite young." He really knew nothing about it, he had merely suspicions, but he said at a venture, "Wendy, I ran away the day I was born."
