Free Imposter by Chanda Stafford Page B

go, poor girl.” Carroll shakes his head. “I really don’t understand it.” With an exaggerated sigh, Carroll turns his attention back to me. “Sit, sit, my friend. It’s been too long since we’ve talked.” He gestures grandly at the plastic chair across from him.
    As I sit across from him, it crosses my mind that Eliot was right. Something is intrinsically off about this man. Ben tugs at his leash. I unclip it, and he sniffs his way over Carroll and investigates ground around him. After apparently finding little of interest, he wanders slowly back over to me and lays down at my side. Will settles himself behind me, hands behind his back, and gazes out the window, more like a potted plant than a person.
    Carroll jerks his head toward Will. “You brought a bodyguard? Aren’t you the important one.”
    I follow his gaze, but Will ignores our conversation. “Not really. He’s a friend.”
    “Carrying on with the hired help? That’s not like you.” Carroll flashes a merry smile. I shift in my chair, my palms growing sweaty. “But I’m sure that’s not the reason you’re here.”
    His words send a chill down my spine. “Like I said, I wanted to visit with you. It’s been too long.”
    Carroll arches one of his coal black eyebrows. “It’s only been five years. Barely a heartbeat for people like us.” He taps his finger to his chin. “Perhaps something else is going on.” Carroll twitches, a small movement at the edge of his left eye.
    “Are you okay?” When Carroll doesn’t answer, my gaze shifts to Will but he shrugs. But when Carroll spasms again, Will steps closer to me, his eyes trained on our companion.
    Carroll’s lip curls into a sneer. “Why are you looking at that boy? He’s nothing but a fly, little Alice. No one important and annoying at best.”
    I jerk my gaze from Will at Carroll’s words. “Who’s Alice?”
    Amy rushes back in. Her hands flutter at her sides, and she purses her bright red lips in worry. “Oh, dear, we were afraid something like this might happen. A change in his routine often sets Mr. Carroll off. I’m so sorry, Socrates.” She wrings her hands. A young, red-headed doctor in a green tunic and pants, enters the room with a small silver disk in his hand.
    “What’s wrong with him?” I ask Amy. The doctor gingerly approaches Carroll from behind.  He waits until the First opens his mouth to speak to us again and then presses the disk to Carroll’s neck. He jumps, his face contorting in pain.
    Amy leaves the doctor and approaches us. “I’m sorry you had to see this. He has these spells sometimes, that’s all.” She forces a smile as Carroll’s breathing slows back to normal, and his head drops to his chest.
    The doctor checks Carroll’s pupils and pulse. “The drugs are taking effect. You shouldn’t have to worry now.” He straightens up, drops the now empty disc into his pocket, and offers me his hand. “I’m sorry, that was rude of me. I’m Dr. Meyers, Mr. Carroll’s primary physician.”
    I tentatively touch my fingers to his, and he shakes my hand. His grip is firm, but his hands are soft and unused to manual labor. “I’m Socrates.”
    He offers me a thin-lipped smile. “Of course, and I’m glad to see you’ve kept all of your faculties. I’d heard you’d taken this last Exchange particularly hard. There was even talk you might be joining us as a guest.”
    The blood drains from my face. “Oh no! I’m fine.”
    “It was a joke, sir. Don’t worry. You’re nothing like our friend here.” He puts a tentative hand on Carroll’s shoulder. “Trust me. Even though it might appear heartless, we’re actually doing Mr. Carroll a favor. Could you imagine him out in the real world?”
    That would be a disaster. “No, not really.”
    “That’s right. We’re just lucky we caught it in time.”
    My attention returns to Lewis Carroll. His head lolls to the side as he fades in and out of consciousness. “How did this happen?”
    “No one