The school hall smelled like crayons, sawdust, and the faint hint of anticipation. Folding chairs squeaked, camera lights blinked, and parents flipped through handmade programs that read, in glitter glue:"St Mary's Primary Presents: Peter Pan!"
Backstage, Nate was trying not to panic. His "Slightly" costume had been assembled from a green tunic that was clearly meant for someone taller and a pair of wool tights that itched like they were woven from bees. His fake wooden sword was taped together (someone snapped it in rehearsal during a dramatic death scene), and the paper feather on his cap kept flopping into his face like it was trying to peck him.
The butterflies in his stomach were doing backflips. But weirdly… he liked it.
"Okay, Lost Boys!" Mr. Harris whispered from the wings. "Positions! Let's go, go, go!"
The curtains creaked open. The lights came up. And just like that, they were flying—well, pretending to fly.
Nate peeked into the audience. There they were. His mom, grinning so hard her cheeks looked like they'd cramp. Richard, composed but smiling, a camcorder in hand. Rusty was not invited but would probably watch the recording later with great interest.
Onstage, Wendy launched into her first monologue. Peter flew (badly) across the "sky"—actually just the gym ropes with glittery streamers. The crocodile was two kids in a giant green onesie who kept tripping over each other. And then…
Nate's turn.
He jumped out from behind a cardboard tree, sword raised, voice shaking a bit. "We fight for Neverland!" he shouted, about two full seconds early.
Pause. Laughter from the audience—not mean, just amused.
Nate flushed, but then he grinned. Why not lean into it?
"Sorry, got excited!" he added, ad-libbing.
The audience laughed louder. Mr. Harris facepalmed from the side but was smiling.
Then came the sword fight. It was mostly wild swings and sound effects shouted out loud:"CLANG!""ZING!""OW—my foot!"
Nate didn't quite hit his cues. He was too busy adding flair—dramatic spins, exaggerated gasps, and a moment where he pretended to faint after being "stabbed" with a foam dagger. The other Lost Boys tried to improvise around it, but Slightly just lay there dramatically until Tinker Bell poked him with a wand.
"Get up, you bean," she hissed, breaking character.
Nate popped up like nothing happened. "Just taking a nap!" he declared. More giggles.
When Captain Hook (played by a kid who had clearly been practicing his evil laugh for weeks) made his big entrance, Nate accidentally knocked over a tree prop while reacting too hard. Leaves flew everywhere. Mr. Harris audibly groaned. The kids turned it into a windstorm. Chaos reigned.
By the end, Nate had tripped once, sung half a song off-key, and saluted the audience before the final bow.
And yet… when they all stood in a row and took their final bows, the clapping was thunderous. Parents stood, some whistled, and someone yelled, "Encore!" even though there wasn't one.
Nate beamed, puffed up with pride. He wasn't perfect, but he had fun. And maybe that's what mattered.
Backstage was pure madness. Kids tossed costume pieces like confetti. Someone was crying because they lost a shoe. Mr. Harris sat down with a dramatic sigh that earned him applause from the cast.
"Taylor," he called, waving Nate over. "You've got something."
Nate blinked. "Like, a good 'something' or a needs-improvement 'something'?"
Mr. Harris chuckled. "Both. You're no Olivier, but you've got heart. Keep that."
Nate gave a thumbs-up and wandered off to grab gummy worms from the snack tray. One of the twins who played the crocodile whispered, "You were so funny!" and then tripped on a chair leg.
Nate was tired, sweaty, still wearing one boot and a crooked feather hat—but happier than he'd been in a long, long time.
September 18, 1993. Saturday morning.
The Taylor kitchen smelled like toast and tea. Rusty lounged by the table, thumping his tail lazily against the linoleum. Nate, still riding the high from last night's show, was munching on Marmite toast in his pajamas. He hummed slightly off-key as he scraped extra butter onto the crust.
Across the table, Richard sipped tea and flipped through The Times, his reading glasses perched on his nose. The paper rustled softly in the quiet.
Nate leaned over, curious. "Anything interesting?"
Richard chuckled. "Depends on how exciting you find economic recovery."
He turned the page to the business section. Nate's eyes caught the headline:
"Black Wednesday's Legacy: A Year On, Boom from Bust?"
Underneath, bold words jumped out:
"George Soros earns a billion. The pound drops. Export giants like BP and Barclays surge."
A tiny sidebar:
BP: £1.48 per share. Up 10% since January.
Nate's chewing slowed. His fingers got buttery as he stared at the text.
Wait.
Wait, wait, wait.
BP. £1.48. Soros. A billion. Stocks.
Harry's brain came roaring back. He remembered 2025, those Netflix documentaries he watched while nursing injuries. The way Soros made his fortune. The way BP's shares soared in the late '90s. £1.48? That was pocket change—for now.
"Dad…" he said slowly, "how much is a billion pounds?"
Richard raised an eyebrow, flipping the page. "More than we'll ever see, champ."
"But like… if you bought BP now, could it grow big?"
Richard paused. "Maybe. Why, are you planning your retirement already?"
Nate shrugged, eyes wide and innocent. "Just sounds cool."
Inside, his mind was racing.
Forget just acting. Forget stunts. If he played this right—stocks, investments—he could change everything. Not just for him, but for his new family too. No dramatic get-rich scheme, just smart moves. Strategic ones. The long game.
Rusty licked his fingers. Nate scratched his ear distractedly.
"Hey Dad," he said casually, "how do you buy stocks anyway?"
Richard blinked at him, halfway to a sip of tea.
"…Should I be worried?"