Dr. Pritchard tucks the picture back into his wallet, running his index finger over the plastic where the photo has started to fade. “I used to work with the pharmaceutical companies,” he says. “I would prescribe medications for depression. But after Virginia’s death, and after the news started to break that antidepressants were a possible cause, I threw myself into finding a cure. I lost six patients in one week. I couldn’t keep them alive.”
“What caused the epidemic?” I ask him. The thought of finally knowing the answer makes my body electric in anticipation.
“It was a combination of factors,” he says simply. “Side effects of medications, news coverage, behavioral contagion. The government is about to pass a law banning stories about suicide from the news networks. They claim it’s contributing to the outbreak—the cases of copycats. We’ll never know exactly where it started, Sloane. We can only guess. But we tried for a cure right away. I got a committee together—ones who were fearful enough to volunteer their own children as test subjects. We experimented with a mix of counseling and medication, intense psychotherapy. We even lobotomized one at his father’s insistence. We tried everything. But then we found that if we take out the behavior, the contagious part of the epidemic, then the patients could retain most of their personalities. It became the trick of how to target them.
“Some of the smartest minds of our time came together to create The Program. I’m the one who created the black pill, the last step in locking away the memories—the final pill you take. It was meant to be a permanent solution. Of course, it was all to be followed with extensive world-building, slow integration into society. But after a few months, we weren’t at one hundred percent and the committee made it clear that perfection was the ultimate goal. They began to turn up the pressure—they brought in handlers, embedded others. They will stop at nothing to get the results they want—and that comes at the expense of your lives. Even if you take The Treatment now, you can’t really go back to who you were, Sloane. Too much has changed now. You see that don’t you?”
“Maybe I don’t want to be who I was,” I say, a familiar ache at my words. “I just want The Program to leave me alone.”
“Yes, I suppose that’s true. But it’s not that easy. The Program has many flaws, and one they’re starting to discover is with the returners themselves. The brain is smarter than any therapy can be, and trauma and overstimulation are affecting rehabilitation. Mandatory resetting is inevitable for someone like you—a person in a high-stress situation. It’s the only way to keep you sane.”
My stomach takes a sick turn. “Are you saying my memories will come back?”
“No.” He shakes his head. “Not all of them. Bits and pieces out of place, sometimes skewed. It occurs only under extreme duress: tragedy, grief, joining up with rebels, say. These cause cracks in the otherwise smooth surface The Program created. I can imagine it would be very traumatizing to have these unfamiliar thoughts. People have gone crazy from them.” He pauses to study me. “Have you had this problem, Sloane?”
“No,” I lie. It happened when I remembered Miller. I saw what it did to Lacey. Dr. Pritchard’s telling the truth about this. Could he be telling the truth about everything?
“That’s good,” the doctor says, smiling. “That means it’s not too late. If I had the pill, I could clear the fog and treat the real problem. The Program’s locked away your memories, like those of your brother, to keep you from killing yourself too. What I’m suggesting is that they let patients keep the painful stuff—and no, life won’t be happy and normal. But then again, none of you were really happy, even after your transformation. You wouldn’t have joined the rebels otherwise.”
“You already told us the public won’t be on our side. So why should we risk working with you?” I realize I actually want him to give me a reason.
The doctor folds his hands on his lap. “What’s your alternative?”
It wasn’t the answer I needed to hear. He thinks he knows best, and that makes Arthur Pritchard just like my parents. Just like The Program. “I can still run,” I say.
His jaw hardens and his careful facade begins to fall away. “Don’t do that,” he snaps. “Don’t spend the rest of your life running. You’ll never be safe. You’ll never have a home.”
I had a home with James, even when we were running. I have to find him and apologize, make this right. I’m sick of all the lies and secrets. James and I can leave the rebels for good, and it’ll be just me and him—the way we wanted it. I stand, about to find James so we can plan our escape, when the doctor reaches for my arm.
“Sloane, I need that pill,” he says. I don’t turn back right away, his fingers a vise around my wrist. “We can’t let The Program get their hands on it.” Heat creeps into my cheeks as I falter for an answer.
“I don’t have it,” I say as calmly as possible, glancing over my shoulder. The Program is looking for The Treatment—that’s what this is. He’s still working for them.
“Do you know who does?” he asks.
“No.”
He studies me, trying to detect if I’m lying. “Sloane,” he says. “The pill is—”
“I get it,” I interrupt. “It’s the key to saving the world. But I can’t help you.”
He lets my arm fall, taking a moment to collect himself. “Listen,” he begins again, softer. “I know you’re angry, but we have a common purpose here. The Program is after you. You and your friends are fugitives, and in my book that makes you my ally. I’ve told you my plan, put myself at risk. You should take that same leap with me, Sloane. You have nothing else left.”
“You may be right,” I say with a quick nod, my resolve to find James overwhelming me. “But I’m still alive, Arthur. And as long as I live, I won’t forgive you for what you’ve done to us.” Then, before he can stop me again, I stride toward the door and open it, waving my hand for him to leave.
Realm is standing in the hallway, and he glances between me and the doctor before moving next to me like backup. Arthur Pritchard sighs heavily and gets up. He looks defeated, but I can’t trust him. I can’t trust the man who created The Program.
“It was nice to finally meet you in person, Sloane,” the doctor says. “Please tell James I said hello.”
A shiver runs over me, a cold realization. In James’s file it mentioned that Arthur Pritchard had been called in for a consult. He knows James. He did this to James. I turn abruptly and start down the hall—desperate to find James and warn him about Arthur.
“James!” I yell just as I get to the stairs. Cas is coming up from below, a crease of concern between his eyebrows.
“Sloane,” he starts, sounding pained. I push past him, still calling for James.
Where is he?
“Sloane,” Cas says again, but this time I can hear in his voice that something’s wrong. I stop near the bottom step and turn toward him. He holds up his hands helplessly, and the world around me starts to close in. “Sloane,” Cas says, “James left. When Arthur was talking to us, he grabbed the keys and took the Escalade. He said . . .” He pauses, lifting his eyes to Realm, who nods for him to go on. “He said there’s no one he can trust anymore. Then he left.”
I reach out to catch the wall as I stumble back, my sneaker slipping off the last stair. James left me. Oh my God. James is gone.
CHAPTER THREE
I’M IN A DAZE AS Arthur Pritchard walks past me on the stairs. He doesn’t mention James again, even though he clearly heard Cas’s admission. Maybe he can see the devastation on my face. When I hear the front door close, I slowly make my way back to my room, not crying, too shocked to cry.
On the dresser is James’s file—he left it behind. I wish I could read my file, read about my brother, my friends. I’d know the truth about James. Was he really lying to protect me? Did I love him? I love him now, and yet, I didn’t run after him. I let him leave.
I lie on the bed and fold my hands over my chest as if I’m dead—in a coffin and rotting. I miss my
father, memories of him taking me for ice cream still clear in my head. But the time surrounding my brother’s death is gone. How did my father act then? How did he behave when they took me into The Program? I wonder if he even tried to stop them. I wonder if he still loved who I was at that point.
My thoughts are becoming distorted and I curl up on my side, burrowing my cheek into the pillow. I miss James. I miss my home. I miss the memories I no longer have. It’s so empty here. I’m so empty.
Cas appears in the doorway, his face filled with the pity I feel for myself. “Can I get you anything?” he asks. “We’re a little worried about you.”
Realm probably sent him in here to gauge my sanity. Now isn’t a good time for my friend to tell me he loves me, to try to take advantage of the situation. Even he knows that. But I won’t be a creature to be pitied. I’m not helpless. I can still fight.
“I’m fine,” I tell Cas, trying to block it all out. “I just have to stop feeling for a while. Isn’t that what The Program wanted in the first place?”
“Jesus, Sloane,” Cas says, taking a step inside the room. “You’re going a little dark.”
But I’m on my feet and past him before he can worry anymore. For a minute I’m better. My chest feels hollow, but the ache has dulled. The respite slips when I get to the kitchen and find Realm sitting at the dinner table, eating ramen noodles. Dallas is behind him, staring daggers at the back of his head while she twirls noodles around her fork.
“Is there any food left?” I ask, motioning toward their bowls. Dallas hitches up one of her eyebrows in surprise, and Realm looks astonished to see me out of the bedroom so soon. Cas goes to fill a bowl from the counter before setting it in front of an empty seat. He watches me cautiously as I sit down. I take a bite and the food is tasteless, a soggy mass of noodles that I don’t want to consume. But right now survival is key.
I can’t bring myself to look at Realm. He’s the reason James left. He’s been lying to me. He’s had his memories this entire time. It doesn’t make sense, though. How many times has he been through The Program? How can he still remember? My suspicions start to gnaw at me, but when I pick up my head, Dallas has turned her hatred to me.
“So he left you?” she asks.
She might as well have punched me. Water floods my eyes, and I grip my fork so tightly the metal bites into my skin. “Please don’t,” I murmur, setting down the utensil. Realm continues eating.
“Don’t what?” Dallas asks innocently. “I’m just making dinner conversation.”
“He’ll come back,” Cas says, drawing my attention. “Don’t pay attention to Dallas—she’s just being a bitch. We all know James will be back.”
“Shut up, Cas,” Dallas sneers. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. Besides, we’re not staying here. Sloane’s got The Treatment. She’s had it this entire time.”
Cas’s eyes go round and his breathing catches like he’s been struck. But I immediately look at Realm as a realization hits me: I don’t have The Treatment. James does. Oh my God, James put it in his pocket. Will he take it now that he’s not with me?
“We can’t leave,” I say to Realm, my pulse racing. “We have to wait until James gets back.”
Realm exhales, pushing his bowl aside. “Your love life is the least of our concerns, Sloane. I’m sorry, but we’re leaving as soon as night falls.”
“I’m not going without James!”
“Well, then I’ll drag you out of here!” Realm says, raising his voice. “Unlike your boyfriend, I’m not scared to do what’s right for you. We’re not risking you or The Treatment because he’s throwing a temper tantrum.”
I slap my hand down the table, making the forks rattle in the bowls. “Stop it,” I hiss. “Stop always trying to break us up. It’s not going to work no matter what excuse you put behind it!”
Realm reacts immediately, jumping up from his chair and knocking it to the floor. His cheeks are glowing pink and he looks completely crazed.
“He left you!” he shouts.
“So did you!” But the damage has been done. Realm’s words cut me, piercing my vulnerability. I grab my bowl and fling it at the wall, sending bits of ceramic and wet noodles everywhere. I’m so sick of this! If Realm wants a fight, he’s got one.
Cas curses under his breath and pushes back from the table. “I’m done,” he says dismissively. “You two can go ahead and kill each other.” He looks over his shoulder at Dallas, and motions for her to follow him.
Dallas smirks, and then she takes one more slurp of cold noodles before tossing her folk on the table with a clank. “Do kiss and make up, kids,” she adds. “It’s going to be a long car ride otherwise.”
When they’re gone, I find Realm watching me. “You’re being horrible,” I tell him. “You know I’m hurt and you’re still being cruel. What’s wrong with you?” I’m angry, feeling a deep resentment toward him I don’t fully comprehend. Or maybe I just don’t remember.
“If you’re waiting for me to tell you how to fix things between you and James,” he says, “that’s never going to happen.”
“I don’t expect you to. I . . . I thought you were my friend, but we keep ending up like this.” I motion to the chaos around us. It’s clear to me that if anyone is toxic, it’s Realm.
“Friend?” Realm laughs, patronizing me. “Sure, sweetness, we’re friends. But if I’m being honest, there’s a bigger part of me that just doesn’t want James to win. You could have come out of The Program and restarted your life. You could have been happy. But instead you went back to him and now look. You have nothing. You have no one.” His eyes weaken a little. “How long before you get sick again? Has it started?”
I feel my expression fall because I know it has. The dark thoughts, the isolation, it’s all there under the surface. Waiting. Realm swallows hard, reading my reaction.
“I won’t lose you, Sloane,” he whispers. “I’ll kill him if I have to.”
“I’d rather die.”
Realm turns away. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
He’s quiet for a moment; his posture slumps. With complete exhaustion, I sit down in my chair, too tired to fight with Realm anymore. Too tired to make excuses for our behavior. “What do I do now?”
“We have to leave,” Realm says. “Right now, before the doctor, The Program, whoever comes back. We’ll leave this place behind us.”
I pause, his intentions becoming clear. “Us?”
He looks up. “Just us.”
He isn’t listening, not about James, not about what I really want. “Realm, I don’t have The Treatment anymore,” I say quietly.
His lips part, and he looks absolutely stunned. He runs his hand through his hair. “Well, fuck,” he mutters. “Did you take it?”
“No. James has it. When we were in my room, he put it in his pocket. He still had it when he left. I . . . I don’t know what he’s going to do.”
Realm looks around the room like he’s trying to gather his thoughts. After a quiet moment he nods his head definitively. “James won’t take the pill,” he says. “Of course he won’t take it.”
“I just want him to come back,” I say, holding up my hands helplessly. “I don’t care about The Treatment.”
“You should care about it,” he says, righting his chair and collapsing into it. “The Program does. Arthur Pritchard does. It changed my life.” He glances away, and I can’t tell if he’s feeling nostalgic or tormented. “Sloane,” he says. “When we met, it wasn’t my first time in The Program. Evelyn Valentine had been my doctor, and she chose me to go through the testing—she gave me The Treatment. You see, the depression had started creeping back in, and she’d thought she found the answer. But there is a drawback to the pill. Only the truly strong can survive the crash of memories. Evelyn got me through it with therapy, but she couldn’t save all of us. I don’t think she could handle the loss.
“She disappeared soon after. I showed up at her office and it’d been ransacked. Evelyn
was gone—along with her research, our identities. She kept us a secret from The Program, saving me one last time. As a precaution, they put every patient she’d come in contact with back through The Program, but the pill protected my memories, cemented them. There are only four people who know I’ve taken The Treatment—no one else, not even my sister. It nearly drove me insane. I wish I could tell you that getting it all back was worth it, but you have no idea how awful it is to remember, Sloane. You have no idea how cancerous it can be.”
I’ve seen the scar on Realm’s neck from when he’d tried to kill himself. But I never had to picture it before. It always seemed like it happened to someone else. Now I imagine what it must be like to have all of your dark thoughts descend on you at once. Even if Realm thinks I am, I’m not sure I would have been strong enough to handle that.
“How did The Treatment protect your memories?” I ask. Everyone is so bent on getting this pill, and I still don’t even know how it works.
“It made my brain like Teflon,” Realm says with a somber smile. “The dye The Program used couldn’t stick. It just slipped away. None of my memories could be targeted for erasure, but of course, the doctors couldn’t see that. I learned to become a very talented liar. The good news is: I’ll never forget. The bad news is: I can never forget.”
“Protection against The Program,” I say, a small glimpse of hope finally breaking through my otherwise gloomy existence. What would it be like to have that worry gone?
“They could still lobotomize us,” Realm says. “But I can’t imagine they would want to do that. It’d be a PR nightmare for them to send you—a recognizable face—back as anything other than well-behaved and complacent.”
“What about Arthur? Would he really mass produce it?”
Realm shakes his head. “Evelyn was a smart lady. I don’t know what she put in the pills, I really don’t, but I’m not sure it is reproducible. Thing is, she never meant for The Treatment to go public. She wouldn’t want Arthur to get his hands on the pill; be responsible for the mass suicides she’d been trying to prevent. It broke her heart when Peter died.”
The Treatment Page 11
