capricious mind. Certainly some of this prejudice had been passed onto Charles. His
attitude then was complicated, and he wondered if he had pushed his daughter
excessively. He wondered if his unrelenting persistence was the cause of Hillary’s
reliance upon her ever-present imaginary friend.
Hillary did not make friends easily. Other children her own age seemed rather silly
to her way of thinking. Their loud, expensive toys and trendy clothes did not interest her
in the least. She had tried her hand at a few video games, but had found them generally
uninteresting. She most of all preferred to stay in her room reading an engrossing book.
Her favourite book by far was the wondrous “Peter Pan”, by J.M. Barrie. Hillary had read
it countless times. From a very early age, her mother had begun to notice her near
obsession with the characters in the story. After the umpteenth bedtime reading of the
fantastical tale, her mother had permanently taken the book away from Hillary. It was
considered unhealthy to fixate so completely upon one particular book. Still, though she
was denied the printed pages, she was still allowed to muse upon the Peter Pan character
every night with her mobile. Above her bed the characters from the incredible story
drifted in lazy circles, tethered to this world by the thinnest of wires. Such was Hillary’s
connection to the world around her.
