The last rays of the sun receded below the horizon, a florid moon taking its place in the sky. The moon’s reddish glow spread like a web across the sky, injecting a gauze-like film into the night that veiled the stars and submerged Neverland into a russet-tinted haze.

Some older children lit the tiki torches and started a few campfires. The combined light cut into the discolored haze, nudging it back, but like a vampire shunned by dawn, it lingered in the shadows.

The sight did nothing to mollify my mounting unease about our situation.

It didn’t take long for confusion to circle through the group, all of us hurling questions at the red- and purple-haired fairies about this strange malady. Like an impassioned mob, our voices overlapped as each of us vied to be understood, making our queries incoherent.

“How long does the Dance of Death last?” my voice cried out the loudest.

I kept thinking of the two youngsters Duncan and I rescued from Shantyville, as well as all the other youths I’d seen in Rockledge. Obviously, the Piper’s music had afflicted the town, everyone displayed varying symptoms of social withdrawal, animosity, and paranoia, but all the children were present and roaming about normally.

“We’re not sure,” the red-haired fairy answered.

“Does anyone know when the Piper was last there?”

Duncan shifted on my shoulder. “A few weeks ago, after my last trip over the wall, I overheard people talking about the music they’d heard the night before. I didn’t think much of it at the time, but…”

“That’s right,” Sen cut in, “I heard people saying the same thing.” For a moment, she was quiet, the mien of concentration plain on her face, then her eyes spread wide with comprehension.

“What is it?’ Duncan and I said in unison.

“There are a dozen or so people unaffected by the PTSD,” she replied, “and I think I know why.” Before we could ask her to elaborate, she plunged ahead with her explanation. Excited at the revelation, Sen’s melancholy vanished. She zipped back and forth, speculating out loud. “All the employees and regular patrons of The Twelve Fairies aren’t exhibiting any PTSD symptoms.”

My mind turned to the first night I’d arrived in Rockledge with Prince and our less than cordial reception at the pub that rapidly turned into a vivacious sing-along. I recalled my surprise at how the patrons’ lively behavior belied the other residents of the town. “You’re right. Do you think they didn’t hear the Piper’s music because of all the noise they make when they’re together at the pub?”

“Precisely!” she said, halting in mid-dash to look at me. “It’s always rowdy at the pub. That’s why I cast a Silencing Charm around the place. I didn’t want the noise disturbing the rest of the town.”

“And the wall blocked the children from leaving town,” the purple-haired fairy said.

A satisfied silence engulfed us. It was nice to resolve some questions surrounding the syndrome. But the moment was brief.

“Did anybody else hear the music Peter spoke of before we escaped the pub?” Duncan asked.