The Mysterious Benedict Society

Reynie’s eyes suddenly filled with tears. “Listen to me, Sticky. I’m so sorry for what you’ve been through. Really I am. But I can’t tell you how glad I am you’re still in there. I thought they’d taken your memory! But it’s still you in there, Sticky — still my good friend!”

“Not for much longer,” Sticky said miserably. “I’m going to crack, Reynie. You know how badly I handle pressure. I’ll flub it tomorrow, and you’ll all be caught. What kind of friend will I be then?”

Reynie closed the suitcase. “You’re not going to flub anything.”

“How can you know?”

“I can see it in you,” Reynie said with perfect conviction. “You’d hold fast tomorrow even if I didn’t have a plan — which I do. When your friends really need you, they can count on you. I just know it. And I do need you, Sticky. I need you here as a friend.”

Sticky’s eyes flickered like a candle on the verge of guttering. “It’s . . . nice of you to say,” he said doubtfully. Then he shuddered. “But Reynie, it’ll kill me if I have to go back to that place. All those hours, with every second crawling by — and other things crawling by, things you can’t see — constantly sinking into that goop, the smell so horrible, like something dead, like maybe it’s yourself that’s dead —”

“You won’t have to spend another day in there,” Reynie said. “I swear it.”

“You bet your boots you won’t,” said Kate, whose head appeared in the ceiling above them. She lowered Constance into the room. “If they send you back there, we’ll find a way to get you out, no matter what. Okay, chum?”

Shakily Sticky rose to his feet.

“It’s going to be all right,” Reynie said. “I’m sure you’ll see Mr. Curtain first thing in the morning.”

“But that’s no good, either! It’s terrible! How can I keep from giving you all away? He knows we’re friends, he knows I was cheating, and he’ll just put two and two together. . . .” Sticky caught his breath, held it a moment, and started over. “Okay, you mentioned a plan, didn’t you? Do you really have one?”

“I’ll tell you about it,” Reynie said, handing him a roll, “but first you should eat. I smuggled some food for you.”

For the first time, Sticky’s eyes brightened and stayed bright. “I am awfully hungry.”

“Ten o’clock!” roared Jackson from just outside the door. Everyone jumped. No one had heard him creeping down the hallway. “Lights out!”

As he hurried to the light switch, Reynie gave Kate a questioning look.

“We turned ours off before we left,” she said a little too loudly.

Immediately Jackson rapped at the door. “Do you boys have someone in there with you? You know that’s against the rule. No room visits, period! And even more no room visits during lights out!”

“It’s just the two of us,” Reynie replied.

This was just what Jackson had hoped Reynie would say. If he caught the boys with visitors now, they were not only breaking one of the Institute’s very few rules, but lying about it as well. He flung open the door and switched on the light. “Aha! There you —” but he cut himself short, for he saw only the two boys, sitting on the floor.

“Isn’t the light supposed to be off?” Reynie asked him.

With a scowl Jackson reached to turn off the light, then thought better of it. “Not just yet,” he said, strolling over to the wardrobe. “First I’d like to see who you have in here.” He threw open the wardrobe doors.

Nothing but clothes inside.

“If you don’t mind, we’d like to get some sleep. Sticky’s had a long day.”

“And whose fault is that?” Jackson said, kneeling to look beneath the bottom bunk. Only the boys’ suitcases. He rose and stared at Reynie, who smiled pleasantly, and then at Sticky, who only shrugged. Jackson sneered. “How did you like the Waiting Room, George?”

Reynie suddenly boiled over with anger. He had spent the evening in such a state of emotion, he couldn’t seem to stop himself. “How can you do that to people, Jackson? Send them to a place like that, and then tease them about it?”

Jackson feigned puzzlement. “What do you mean, ‘a place like that’? The Waiting Room isn’t such a bad place. And it’s perfectly safe. A little mud never hurt anyone. Washes right off, doesn’t it? It may have a bit of an odor, but an odor can’t hurt you any more than mud can — or darkness, for that matter. Darkness is good for you. Rests the eyes. Prevents sunburn . . .”

Livid though he was, Reynie fought to regain control of himself. He should never have said anything in the first place. It did no good to argue with an Executive.

Jackson was still lecturing with obvious pleasure. “And yes, I suppose there are a great many flies and beetles and crawling things — but they didn’t bite or sting, did they? You aren’t afraid of a fly, are you, George?”

“No,” Sticky replied in an even tone. But he was glaring at Jackson. It was such an angry look — so full of defiant outrage — that Reynie actually felt encouraged. There was strength in Sticky. It was just easy to miss. Easiest of all for Sticky himself.

Jackson missed it, too. “Of course you aren’t. So let’s hear no more nonsense,” he said, screwing up his face as if talking to a pitiful baby, “about the Waiting Woom being such a nasty wittle pwace.” Then he grinned wickedly, shut off the light, and left the room. His boots thumped away down the corridor.

Constance’s stifled voice called out, “Good grief! Do you intend to keep me in here forever?”

“Quiet,” Reynie whispered, peeking out the door. The corridor was empty. He nodded at Sticky, who dragged