Finders Keepers by Stephen King Page A

don’t go to sleep. You’re going back to your room in like five minutes.”
    â€œTen.”
    â€œSix.”
    She considered. “Okay.”
    From downstairs came a muffled groan, followed by the thump of crutches. Pete tracked the sound into the kitchen, where Dad would sit down, light a cigarette, and blow the smoke out the back door. This would cause the furnace to run, and what the furnace burned, according to their mother, was not oil but dollar bills.
    â€œAre they gonna get divorced, do you think?”
    Pete was doubly shocked: first by the question, then by the adult matter-of-factness of it. He started to say No, course not, then thought how much he disliked movies where adults lied to children, which was like all movies.
    â€œI don’t know. Not tonight, anyway. The courts are closed.”
    She giggled. That was probably good. He waited for her to say something else. She didn’t. Pete’s thoughts turned to the trunk buried in the embankment, beneath that tree. He had managed to keep those thoughts at arm’s length while he did his homework, but . . .
    No, I didn’t. Those thoughts were there all the time.
    â€œTeens? You better not go to sleep.”
    â€œI’m not . . .” But damn close, from the sound.
    â€œWhat would you do if you found a treasure? A buried treasure chest full of jewels and gold doubloons?”
    â€œWhat are doubloons?”
    â€œCoins from olden days.”
    â€œI’d give it to Daddy and Mommy. So they wouldn’t fight anymore. Wouldn’t you?”
    â€œYes,” Pete said. “Now go back to your own bed, before I have to carry you.”
    â€¢â€¢â€¢
    Under his insurance plan, Tom Saubers only qualified for therapy twice a week now. A special van came for him every Monday and Friday at nine o’clock and brought him back at four in the afternoon, after hydrotherapy and a meeting where people with long-term injuries and chronic pain sat around in a circle and talked about their problems. All of which meant that the house was empty for seven hours on those days.
    On Thursday night, Pete went to bed complaining of a sore throat. The next morning he woke up saying it was still sore, and now he thought he had a fever, too.
    â€œYou’re hot, all right,” Linda said after putting the inside of her wrist to his brow. Pete certainly hoped so, after holding his face two inches from his bedside lamp before going downstairs. “If you’re not better tomorrow, you probably should see the doctor.”
    â€œGood idea!” Tom exclaimed from his side of the table, where he was pushing around some scrambled eggs. He looked like he hadn’t slept at all. “A specialist, maybe! Just let me call Shorty the Chauffeur. Tina’s got dibs on the Rolls for her tennis lesson at the country club, but I think the Town Car is available.”
    Tina giggled. Linda gave Tom a hard look, but before she could respond, Pete said he didn’t feel all that bad, a day at home would probably fix him up. If that didn’t, the weekend would.
    â€œI suppose.” She sighed. “Do you want something to eat?”
    Pete did, but thought it unwise to say so, since he was supposed to have a sore throat. He cupped his hand in front of his mouth and created a cough. “Maybe just some juice. Then I guess I’ll go upstairs and try to get some more sleep.”
    â€¢â€¢â€¢
    Tina left the house first, bopping down to the corner where she and Ellen would discuss whatever weirdo stuff nine-year-olds discussed while waiting for the schoolbus. Then Mom for her school, in the Focus. Last of all Dad, who made his way down the walk on his crutches to the waiting van. Pete watched him go from his bedroom window, thinking that his father seemed smaller now. The hair sticking out around his Groundhogs cap had started to turn gray.
    When the van was gone, Pete threw on some clothes, grabbed