Free Kingdom Keepers: The Syndrome by Ridley Pearson Page A

happening.”
    “A sponge. A glass. Maybe some ice?”
    “I have to talk to my husband first. He’s not going to like this.”
    “I would offer to leave, but you need me. I can help you. I have…well, I’m strong. I know I don’t look it, but I’m very strong. Greg Luowski is afraid of me, and
he’s not expecting me to be here. That’s our advantage.”
    “You make it sound like a battle, Amanda.”
    “If there was time, I’d try to sugarcoat it,” I said. “But there isn’t, and this
is
a battle. Or it will be. And it’s coming tonight.”
    I climbed the stairs timidly. Finn was up there. Vulnerable. Half dead. Stuck in a limbo that no one, not even the Imagineers, fully understood. There was no science to explain
the transfer of consciousness. I couldn’t scare Mrs. Whitman with talk of such things, but I wore the knowledge like a stone around my neck.
    “He’s not happy about this,” Mrs. Whitman said. She didn’t mean Finn.
    “But I can stay?”
    “I wasn’t about to tell him about that boy. And we can’t call the police until he actually does something. Do you have proof of any of this? Anything at all?”
    “No. I could be wrong, but I’m not. If that makes any sense.”
    “Not to me, it doesn’t.”
    “No. I didn’t expect it would.”
    She swung open the door. I’d seen this upstairs bedroom before—there had been meetings here. We would huddle around his computer or talk strategy, sometimes for hours. Always with
the door open, always with Mrs. Whitman bringing snacks and making conversation. So I knew what to expect. I knew what I’d see.
    And still I fell to the floor, bawling. Nothing had prepared me for seeing Finn in SBS. I felt like a baby. An idiot. A fool. But I couldn’t stop sobbing. Mrs. Whitman placed her hand on
my back, and I cried all the harder. No one ever gave me sympathy like that. Jess could console me, and did, but she was my age, my friend. Having an adult like Wanda or Mrs. Whitman actually care
devastated me.
    Taking big, shuddering breaths, I pulled myself together and drew closer.
    Finn looked peaceful, but too still. I knew him; he was always filled with energy and determination. Always moving, he epitomized the deep thinking, overly aware leader he’d proven himself
to be. Wayne had molded him, starting with a quiet, introverted boy who had a love of Disney, a little sister he adored, and parents from whom he felt himself growing away. We’d talked for
hours about all this—and more. I knew him in ways Mrs. Whitman never would, and she knew him as only a mother could.
    It explained why, when I looked over at her, she was crying, too. Then we both started laughing nervously, self-consciously. Two people cherishing the same boy, made sad by his present
state.
    We worked as a team after that, Mrs. Whitman’s animosity washed away by our shared tears. My inbred suspicion of adults melted away, too. While Mrs. Whitman dabbed Finn’s lips and
tried to provoke the sleeping boy to open his mouth, I held a face towel below his chin, collecting the runoff. At first, our effort was a failure. The water cascading down Finn’s chin made
him look pitiful, infantile. I closed my eyes, unable to watch.
    It wasn’t until Mrs. Whitman pulled the sponge away that we had our first real success: Finn’s lips twitched and kissed, as if reaching for the fresh water. His mother stabbed the
sponge into his mouth, but then backed off, barely wetting his lips. Bit by bit, drop by drop, the slumbering Finn took to the idea of water. Within minutes, the sponge was making sucking
noises.
    I prepared the Gatorade. We slipped him a substitute. I provoked him to “Sip!” and eventually, after a good number of tries and another fifteen minutes, Finn drank an ounce or two of
the red lifesaver. It wasn’t much, probably not enough, but I was elated and Mrs. Whitman was beside herself with joy.
    It was late and getting later by the time she could no longer contain her