Dr. Francis pulls his eyebrows together with concern. “Everyone who comes into The Program is very unwell.”
“That’s not the point,” I say. “We should have a choice.”
“But how can a proper decision be made when the mind is clouded with disease? It’s an infection, Sloane. A behavioral contagion. And we’re the only cure.” He pauses as if just realizing how cold he sounds. “I apologize,” he says. “You should get settled first. I’ll have the nurse come in to check on you.” He nods to me before leaving the room.
I’m still shaking from the shot the handler gave me, but I can’t help wonder if the doctor is right. Maybe I’m sick and don’t realize it. I lie back in the bed, looking at the gauze wrapped around my wrist and remembering how desperate I felt.
But I can also remember the look on the handler’s face when he came to get me—his predatory stare. He’d been waiting for that moment, waiting to get me here.
No. The Program isn’t the cure. It’s the end of me.
• • •
“And this is the leisure room,” the nurse says, motioning ahead. She’s grandmotherly, even wearing a knit sweater over her scrubs. But I think it’s purposeful, that she’s here to trick me somehow. I wrap my arms tighter around myself, my head still fuzzy, and shuffle behind her into the large room.
I’m dressed in lemon-yellow hospital scrubs with a matching robe, sunny slipper socks on my feet. I’d prefer something more depressing—maybe black, but I suppose that’s why they picked yellow.
The leisure room doesn’t look the least bit relaxing. Unlike the Wellness Center, this space has no color. It’s stark white and bland, like a black-and-white movie with splashes of yellow. There are about twenty people in here. The Program takes patients between the ages of thirteen and seventeen, but most appear to be on the older side. There’s no ping-pong table or chessboard. Instead there’s a TV on one side with a couch in front of it. A few tables and chairs are poised near the windows—which I’m sure are sealed—looking over a lawn. There are a couple of computers with signs that read NO INTERNET ACCESS. The only thing that looks even slightly appealing is the game of cards going on at a table in the corner,
Three guys are sitting there, one chomping on a pretzel stick like it’s a cigar. The way they interact—as if they’re friends—floods me with a sudden longing for James and Brady. We used to play cards like that.
“Which facility is this?” I ask, feeling sick. There are three buildings that The Program uses. I wonder if this is the same one James was sent to.
“Springfield,” she says. “Roseburg and Tigard are nearing full capacity. We can only handle forty patients at a time, so we’re a tightly knit group here.” She smiles and touches my shoulder. “We have about an hour before dinner. Why don’t you try to make some friends?” she asks. “It’s good for your recovery.”
I throw her such a hateful glance that she backs up. Friends? They are about to erase my friends. With a nod, the nurse leaves me there, her grandmotherly facade falling away as she goes about her other duties.
I think then that maybe everything here is fake. They offer us a false sense of calm, but there is no such thing. This is The Program. I know how dangerous that is.
The guy across the room with the pretzel cigar laughs loudly, tossing down his cards. I’m so stunned to hear the laughter that I just stare, wondering how someone could laugh in a god-awful place like this.
Just then he glances over and notices me, his smile faltering a little. He tips his head in acknowledgment. I turn away.
I walk to the window and sit in the chair there, pulling my knees up to wrap my arms around them. How many people tried to jump out of these windows before they decided to seal them?
I’ve never been a fan of heights. Back when we were kids, my parents took us to an amusement park, and Brady convinced me to go on the Ferris wheel with him. I was probably eight or nine, and when we got to the very top, the cart stopped, frozen there. At first Brady joked around, rocking the cart back and forth. But he cut it out when I started crying.
“You must be afraid of heights, Sloane,” he said, putting his arm protectively around me. “I’m sorry.” He paused then, looking out over the park. “It’s not good to have fears like this. It only makes it more likely that you’ll die that way—a self-fulfilling prophecy.”
I wiped at my face. “What?”
“I read it in a book once. So if you keep being afraid of heights, you’ll probably die falling from something.”
I grip the bar tightly, my breath starting to quicken. Brady chuckled.
“I don’t mean today. I mean eventually. It’s like the river, Sloane. You’re afraid of swimming—so chances are, if you ever fall in, you’ll probably drown. Your mind will make it happen.”
I pause now, looking out on the lawn of The Program facility. I didn’t drown in the river, even when I tried. But my brother did. Was it my fault because he knew I feared it?
“You look like somebody kicked your dog.”
The voice startles me, and I look up to see the guy from the card table standing there. “What?” I ask, putting my feet on the floor.
“Yeah, you’re right,” he says. “They probably just erased its memory. Good point.” He smiles. His dyed black hair is shaggy and long, sticking out in random directions, but not in an entirely bad way. The shadows are heavy under his eyes. On his neck, just below his jawline, is a jagged scar. I swallow hard and meet his dark eyes.
“Not really in the mood to joke around,” I say. “Maybe another time.” I turn toward the window, hoping he’ll go away so I can retreat back into my memories. So that I can think of James.
“Okaaaaay,” the guy says, taking a step back. “See you around then, sweetness.” He shakes his head as he leaves, possibly surprised that I didn’t want to chat. But I’m not going to do that here. I’m not interested in making friends. I’m interested in getting out.
CHAPTER TWO
IT’S EARLY WHEN THE NURSE COMES IN THE NEXT morning, the warm smile back on her face. I slept heavily, which I have no doubt is due to the medication they gave me before bed. “Time for you to meet your therapist, Dr. Warren,” she says, taking my arm to help me out of bed. I feel groggy and sway on my feet for a second. “You’ll really like her,” she adds. “Fantastic doctor.”
After a quick trip to the bathroom, I return, and the nurse gathers my hair into a ponytail. I don’t stop her because it feels like sandbags are attached to my arms. She slides on my slipper socks and wraps my robe around me. “Okay, honey,” she says. “Let’s go. We don’t want to be late.”
I blink slowly and walk beside her as she leads me into the hallway. It’s empty except for the dark-haired handler leaning against the wall, his arms crossed over his broad chest. He tilts his head down as I pass. “Good morning, Miss Barstow.”
I don’t respond, and instead tighten my grip on the nurse’s arm. The handler is always there, always lurking. I’m afraid I’ll never get away from him again.
“What time is it?” I ask the nurse, my voice raspy and thick with sleep.
“You have the first appointment of the day. Six a.m.,” she responds.
I think that six in the morning is way too early to expect people to bare their soul, but maybe it’s also a time when I’m more vulnerable. I clench my jaw, trying to fight back the fear as we pause in front of a wooden door. I don’t know what’s behind it. I don’t know what they’re going to do to me.
The nurse opens the door, and I hold my breath, waiting. She ushers me into a small office, clean and white. There’s a comfortable-looking chair poised in front of a large wooden desk. The woman behind the desk rises and smiles at me.
“Good morning, Sloane,” she says. Her voice is deep, authoritative and protective at the same time.
“Morning,” I mumble, taken aback by how normal the room is. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but it definitely involved a much scarier scenario—electric-shock machine
s maybe.
“Thank you, Nurse Kell,” Dr. Warren says to the nurse and then offers me a seat. As I collapse in the oversize maroon chair, I spy a glass of water on the good doctor’s desk. Next to it is a bright-red pill. Doubt it’s for her.
My eyes drift up to hers, and she presses her lips into a sympathetic smile. “You’re angry,” she says.
“You think?”
“Why?”
The question seems so absurd that I don’t know how to answer at first. I stare at her. She’s wearing thin, wired glasses, her dark wavy hair falls perfectly to her shoulders. Even her makeup looks flawless, as if she’s not real at all. Just an actress on a set.
“I don’t want to be here,” I say.
“You tried to kill yourself, Sloane.”
“Because the handlers were there,” I shoot back. “I figured if they were going to take me, they may as well get a show, too.”
The doctor nods with a disappointed expression and glances at the pill. “I think you should take this before we begin.”
“And if I don’t?”
She tilts her head. “Then you don’t. This isn’t a trick, Sloane. I want to help, but you’re really on edge.”
“No, I’m pissed. I want my life back. I want to go home.”
“And you will,” she says, leaning forward. “You will.” She sounds so earnest that my first instinct is to believe her. People can’t fake caring like that. Or at least they shouldn’t be able to. “Please,” she adds, motioning to the medication. “It really will make you feel better. All I want to do is talk.”
I want to go home. I want my bed. I don’t want to give in to the therapy. But if the pill will take away the sadness that is crushing my chest right now, maybe I’ll take it this one time. Just to get me through. So I nod, and I pick up the little red pill and swallow it.
• • •
Dr. Warren adjusts her glasses and smiles at me. It’s been twenty minutes since I took the medication, and I have to say, my body feels pretty good. My legs are over the side of the chair as I rest my head against the back. My muscles that have been clenched for days are finally relaxed and loose.
“I know that missing James is a main source of pain for you right now,” Dr. Warren starts. “Maybe it would help if we talk about him.”
“And why would I tell you?” I ask dreamily, and look past her to where the sun is shining outside the large windows. “You don’t care about us.”
“Of course I do. I’m here to help you, Sloane. I’ve devoted my life to helping stop this epidemic.”
“Right.”
“I’d love to hear how you and James met,” she pressed again.
“He was best friends with”—I pause, a moment of raw emotion capturing me—“with my brother,” I finish.
“The brother who committed suicide?”
I nod, and slowly the warmth of the medication seeps back in and washes away my pain. I’m so numb it’s almost euphoric.
“Do you blame yourself for Brady’s death?”
I flinch when she uses my brother’s name. The fact that she even knows his name unsettles me. I don’t want to talk about Brady, and yet I find myself answering anyway. “Of course,” I say.
“Why?” Dr. Warren leans her elbows on the desk.
“I was there,” I say, trying to explain. “If I knew how to swim . . .”
“Does James feel guilty too?”
“Yes.” I remember how many nights I held James’s head in my lap, watching him cry. Listening to him tell me that he’d let Brady down. Let me down. I hate the image and I try to push it away, but it’s stuck on a continuous loop that I can’t stop. Like how I can’t stop myself from telling the doctor this, even though I don’t want to. I’m compelled to spill my guts—my ravaged, emotional guts.
“So you both took the blame,” she says. “Took the loss hard. I bet that built quite a bond between you and James. Is that how you got together?”
“No. We’d started dating before that.”
The doctor leans forward. “Tell me about it.”
Even though something in my head tells me not to talk about him, my emotions overwhelm me. I miss him, and I want to remember what it was like before. For the first time in so long, I’m allowed to cry. I’m allowed to let it out. So I close my eyes and lean my head back into the chair.
And I tell her about the first time I realized I had feelings for James.
“Let me get this straight,” the doctor says when I finish. “James tried to avoid the relationship at first?”
“Passive-aggressively, yes. We both loved my brother and didn’t want to piss him off.”
“Then how did you go from that to a relationship?”
“It took a while,” I say, glancing at her. “Even that first day was confusing. After we’d gotten back to camp, it was awkward. Horrible. I figured it’d pass eventually. Then that night, the three of us got into our tent, Brady on one side of me, James on the other. It was a huge tent, and Brady was curled away from us. But James lay right at my side, his arm nearly, but not quite, touching mine.
“It felt like forever. All I could hear was his breathing, my breathing. I tried to close my eyes, but my body was tingling. I sensed him looking at me, and swallowed hard, wishing I could be asleep already. And just then, his hand brushed mine, so lightly, it was like nothing at all. I hitched in a breath and turned sideways, only to find him staring back.” I smile. “His blue eyes were so confused, and I thought he was going to kiss me.”
“Did he?” Dr. Warren asks.
I shake my head. “Nope. Instead he swore and then climbed up, grabbing his sleeping bag and his backpack. He unzipped the tent flap and went outside. He ended up sleeping in the car that night.”
Dr. Warren pulls her eyebrows together. “Why would he do that? Were you upset?”
“Well, I definitely didn’t sleep well. I felt guilty and embarrassed. Later James told me that when he touched me, when I looked at him, he got a hard-on.” I laugh.
“So he’s a romantic?” Dr. Warren grins.
“That’s just James. He actually meant it as a compliment. But he was set on not liking me. So he went to sleep in the car. He was hoping I hadn’t noticed—which I didn’t. I wish I had, though, because I spent the next few weeks feeling miserable. Like I’d done something wrong.”
The timer on her desk goes off, and Dr. Warren smiles at me again. “Fascinating story, Sloane. I hope tomorrow I can hear more.”
I nod, feeling decent for the first time in weeks. Talking about James helped, as if he were here with me—the old James. The one I’ve missed so desperately. Although it might be naive, for a second I think it’ll be okay. That maybe Dr. Warren really does want to help me.
“Wait,” she says, handing me a Dixie cup. I glance inside and see a yellow pill. “Take this, Sloane.”
“But—”
“It’ll help the feeling last longer,” she says, and smiles. I don’t want to go back to the misery I felt when I walked in here, so I swallow it and leave.
As I’m walking down the hallway, heading back to my room, I feel a wave of dizziness. I rest my palm on the cool tile of the wall to balance myself. A streak of fear races through me. Oh, no. What was in that pill? I touch my forehead, thinking back on the session. But as I search my memories, I become disoriented and the world seems to tip sideways.
A hand touches my elbow. “Let’s get you back to your room, Miss Barstow.”
I look over to see the dark-haired handler, a sinister smile on his lips. I yank my arm out of his grip. “Leave me alone.”
“Now, now,” he says, teasingly. “Let’s not be difficult. I can restrain you again.”
But I’m not going to let him intimidate me. Threaten me. The Program can’t have me. So I swing out my arm, punching the left side of his jaw. He immediately recovers and twists my hand up behind my back, cursing under his breath as he slams me against the wall. When there’s a sudden pinch in my arm, the sedative, I
laugh. “I don’t care how many drugs you and the doctors give me,” I say. “I’ll never let you take my memories.”
The handler leans in, his breath warm on my ear. “You stupid girl,” he whispers. “We already have.”
And then I sleep.
CHAPTER THREE
I’M IN MY CHAIR BY THE WINDOW AGAIN, THE SAME one I’ve sat in for three days. The sky is overcast and I’m glad. It’s a bitter feeling, something like “if I can’t be happy, no one should.” I wonder what James is doing, but then I push the thought away, remembering that he doesn’t know me anymore.
“I’m guessing another kicked-dog joke would be in bad taste, right?”
I don’t turn toward the guy’s voice, and instead continue to stare outside. I might even appear catatonic.
“Are you always so mean?” he asks.
“Yes,” I answer automatically. I wish he would go away. I wish they all would go away.
“Charming. So anyway, I brought you this and wanted to invite you to our card game tonight if you’re up for it. But leave your horns and pitchfork behind.” He sets a large pretzel stick on the table next to me and I look at it, but not at him. “Very exclusive card game, I might add.” I can hear the smile in his voice.
I lean over and pick up the pretzel stick, examining it for a second before taking a bite. I say nothing and go back to watching the darkening clouds outside of the window. I hope it rains soon.
“You’re welcome,” the guy says, sounding defeated. “Maybe I’ll see you later.”
I wait until he’s gone before looking up. He’s on the couch with a red-headed girl, laughing hysterically, as if we weren’t in The Program. As if this was a party in someone’s parents’ basement.
The pretzel becomes dry in my mouth and I think I might choke on it. And just then, the guy glances over his shoulder at me, his dark eyes concerned, and I turn away again.
• • •
“When did you and James start dating?” Dr. Warren asks. I sit back, looking her over as the medication makes the edges of my vision hazy. The doctor has her hair pulled up into a bun, her makeup and pantsuit paired nicely. She’s perfect. She’s fake.
The Program Page 10
