You want to run. Get shed of this place, these boys, their stuff. There’s never time enough for your work, whatever that is, and never any help. Bagel halves hardened under chairs and sofas, soda cans swirling with little constellations of fruit flies. Tinker Bell? A myth. She’s a cloud of insects over the banana peels on counters, trash barrel overflowing, spilled syrup, open packages of frozen orange chicken and loose pieces of candy everywhere you step. A figment who wouldn’t wave her wand to help with this mess if she did exist, and she’s laughing behind your back, too, making funny faces that contain your grim, your desperate, If each of you could take just ten minutes to pick up trash, to hang up shirts… And Tink says, Do you hear anything? She pauses, cupping her ear. A little insect buzz? Come on boys, let’s go hike in the forest! You say you don’t like being the maid. And Peter says, Why are you so cranky? We’re having fun! Things don’t need to be perfect. So you sling the unwashed dishes, silverware, pots and all into a bulging bag of trash and drag it to the curb. One thing’s for sure: you’re tired of never getting any help, of never going anywhere, of never having any time to paint, and Captain Hook, who has an MFA and an inheritance, has been hanging out for years with his starched white collars, his dinner jackets, his careful coiffure, begging you to cruise the world, and though you’ve told him never many times, you know he knows each never grows more faint, that no one believes you anymore. It’s just a matter of time before the boys all leave for college.