The Lost Boys stood around, eyeing him critically, a few nodding their approval. Rufio reappeared and stood watching without comment. Tink darted this way and that, appraising him from all angles.

Suddenly Pockets began whispering to the other Lost Boys. Peter knew from experience now what that meant and began looking for a way through their ranks. But once again he was overpowered as they descended on him with war paint decorating him with stripes and squiggles and strange faces in the wildest colors, making him look as much as possible like them, to disguise the last vestiges of who and what he had been when he had come to them, trying to find the Pan hidden somewhere within.

When they were done, they stepped back once again. For a moment, no one spoke. Then Pockets said quietly, "Godda see ib you can still fly, Peder."

Singing and dancing anew, they paraded him through the clearing and up through spring and along the edges of winter to a cliff. A giant sling sat just back from its edge. The sling was made of wood and ropes and had a leather pouch into which Peter was summarily plopped.

"Wait, no, this isn't going to work!" Peter protested, wide-eyed with fear.

Pockets and Ace walked to the edge of the cliff and peered down. Below, standing next to a giant mud puddle, was a Lost Boy holding a cutout of Peter. Blond hair pushed carefully back beneath his hat, Ace raised his spyglass and called out a distance to Pockets, who marked it down on a small chalkboard. A hurried discussion ensued with several others and an agreement was reached. Ace lifted his hand to signal.

Peter heard the sound of a crank being turned and felt his pouch begin to draw back through the heavy framework of the sling. The band of the catapult slowly tightened.

Ratchets caught and slipped. Click! Click! Click!

Peter couldn't speak. He could barely breathe. He was paralyzed with fright. They weren't really going to do this, were they? Not really? This was ridiculous! This was incredibly dangerous!

Tink appeared beside him, walking along in time to the clicking of the ratchets, eyeing him critically. "All you need is one happy thought, Peter. Just one, and it will make you fly."

Peter swallowed. "Get me out of here, Tink!"

"One happy thought," she persisted.

"Not being in this slingshot would make me very happy! Ecstatic, in fact!"

Below, where the cutout had been measured, a gathering of Lost Boys were raising a huge net. They think they're in a circus, thought Peter in horror.

"Think, Peter," urged Tink, still following his progress backward in the pouch. "Try."

Peter thought, desperate now. "Wait! I have one!"

Tink bounced excitedly. "I knew you could do it! What is it?"

"Last February, the market shot up two hundred points!"

Tink stared. "What market? What are you talking about?"

Peter's head bobbed, frantic. "No, you're right-I was underinvested. Wait, let me think. Got it! This one will fly!" He cringed at his choice of words. "It's the perks!"

Tinkerbell tossed her head. "Are they wonderful, rich, round cakes with lots of frosting?"

Peter laughed tonelessly. "I'm talking about a five-line phone in a super-stretch limo, last-minute tickets to any sporting event, to any theater I name, corporate jets with precleared flight plans and priority landing…"

Tink held up her hands to shut him off. ' 'This can't be the right direction, Peter. Look, maybe this will help. I'll say some things. You see what comes to mind. Close your eyes and picture it."

Peter was happy to close his eyes. "Okay, I'm ready. Hurry!"

Tink flitted close. "Puppies."

Peter frowned. "They try to commit suicide under your feet."

"Cotton candy."

"Disgusting, cavity-inducing pink goo that gets all over your hands."

"Snow."

"Awful-turns to slush and ruins the finish of your car." Peter's voice was a wail. "I'm not happy!"

Tink flared. "Are you happy in spring?"

Peter's lips compressed. "Taxes."

"Summer?"

"Mosquitoes."

"How about swimming?"

"Chlorine."

"Play-Doh?"

Peter hesitated. "What's that?"

"Christmas?"

"Gifts, bills, credit cards. I'm not happy!"

"Swings or slides?"

"Fact of life. Happens all the time if you play the market. You've just got to learn to live with it:"

"MMs?" Tink was growing desperate.

"Melts on your couch, not in your hand."

Tink exploded. "Peter, nothing makes you happy!"

Peter's whole face was crumpled tight in concentration. "No, now that's simply not true. Just let me think, let me think. One minute. How much time do I have left?''

"None," whispered Rufio in his ear.

Peter's eyes shot open. Rufio towered over him, legs spread, arms folded as he balanced on the end of the sling frame. Almost as if by magic, the Pan sword appeared, slicing down through the taut rope. The sling released, catapulting Peter skyward. Arms and legs flailing madly, his voice raised in a howl of disbelief and terror, Peter tried desperately to fly. Down below, Lost Boys shouted and leaped about, some holding up placards that spelled out words like horsies, candie, bugs, and pennies. None of them meant anything to Peter. He seemed to sail overhead for a very long time, the eyes of the boys below tracking his progress hopefully. Tink watched with them, peeking out from between the slits of the fingers she had clasped over her eyes, wings and heart beating madly.

Just one happy thought!

But it was not to be this day. Down plummeted Peter, tumbling into the safety net in a frightened heap, the air whooshing from his lungs, his body bouncing like a balloon in the wind. Tink flew to his side, followed by the small entourage of Lost Boys who were still in his camp.

The rest turned doubtfully to Rufio.

Rufio lifted his sword. "I'm more man than Pan-and twicet the boy! Now, who is wi' me?"

They charged from where they stood to join him, crying out, "Rufio, Rufio, Rufio!" He raised the sword high to signal victory, leading them away from the cliff. In seconds they were gone, headed back to the Nevertree.

Peter sat up, dazed. Tink and the seven Lost Boys stared down at him disconsolately.

"There was the Proctor and Gamble deal," he announced hesitantly. "That made me happy."

No one seemed impressed.

Peter was last to the dinner table that night, so bone weary he could barely manage to hold his head up. Everything hurt from his hair to his toes. Bruised, battered, and bandaged, he was a certifiable wreck. Tink and the little band of Lost Boy followers had kept him going the entire day, from one exercise to the next, over and over and over again.

Except for the sling routine-they hadn't bothered to try that on him again.

Not that it mattered. Nor that anything they did mattered. Because nothing they did was going to work-of that Peter was certain. They could run him, pummel him, and sling him hither and yon until the cows came home and it wouldn't change things. He was still fat, old Peter Banning and not-he couldn't bring himself to say the name-who they wanted him to be. Worse, none of this was getting him any closer to rescuing Jack and Maggie.

So as he trudged from the jogging track and exercise machines to the long table set back close beneath the branches of the Nevertree within the shadow of summer and hailing distance of spring, he found himself confronted with the fact that he was on the verge of failing his kids one more. Not being there for baseball games or piano recitals was one thing. Not being there to save Jack and Maggie from Hook was something else again. It would be the culmination of a long line of disappointments he had given them-only this one was likely to prove fatal.

He wiped away the tears that sprang to his eyes, not wanting anyone to see, and moved to take a seat. Despite his distress, he was hungry. No, make that starved. He'd had nothing to eat all day, kept busy by Tink and the Lost Boys trying to find the boy in himself. Which was long since gone, of course. Which was dead and buried. He shoved the thought away. At any rate he needed to eat. However slim his chances of helping his kids might be in any case, they were nonexistent if he didn't eat.