The Treatment

CHAPTER ONE

THERE ARE VOICES, BUT I can’t make out their words. Not at first. My eyelids are heavy as I try to open them, letting in small slivers of light when I blink. The voice next to me is only an echo.

“Is there anybody in there?” she asks again more clearly.

My lips are numb as I turn my head lazily to the side. My head is throbbing from where I hit it on the pavement. “Help me,” I whisper to the waiting nurse. I try to reach out, but my wrists are fastened down. I’m surrounded by stark white walls with the smell of bleach thick in the air. The nurse leans closer, and I recognize her from my first stay in The Program. Nurse Kell places her hand on my shoulder.

“We are going to help you,” she says, an earnest smile on her thin lips. “But first we have to cure the infection.” She takes a syringe from the pocket of her fuzzy blue sweater and uncaps it. “Now don’t move, dear,” she says, pushing up my shirtsleeve, “or this will really hurt.”

I hitch in a breath, choking on it as I start to whimper. “Please, Kell,” I say. “I’m not sick. I’m really not.”

“That’s what they all say.” Her manners are sweet but firm. And when I feel the pinch and burn of the needle, I openly sob.

A handler walks in. He’s tall, a bit unkempt compared to the others. He’s the same one who put his hand on Cas’s shoulder back at the parking lot. My heart breaks and I shake my head, trying to rid myself of Cas’s memory. Pretending the past few weeks with him never happened. I can’t reconcile in my mind that the guy who looked out for us is really the one who turned us in.

The handler comes over, talking quietly with Kell. When they finish, they unfasten me from the bed and drop me into a wheelchair, securing me to the armrests. The burn from the needle has turned to a tingle, and then it’s like warm bathwater. A sense of calm stretches over me, even though I know logically it’s not really there. The drug is numbing my panic, but it can’t mask everything. I won’t let it. I kick my legs, trying to buck my body out of the chair, but I’m too lethargic. I end up flopping like a fish, gasping for breath, and by the time I’m out in the hallway, I’m too tired to fight anymore. I melt into the chair, feeling the trickle of tears slide down my cheeks.

“Where are we going?” I mumble as Nurse Kell walks hurriedly beside me, her hands in the pockets of her sweater.

“To see the doctor, Sloane. They need to determine if you’re a candidate for continued therapy.”

My heart skips. “And if I’m not?” I ask. Kell doesn’t answer me, just smiles as if it’s a silly question. We’re passing patients in the hallway, flashes of lemon-yellow scrubs streaking my vision. But it’s the last face I see before I’m pushed through the double doors that sinks my hope.

Lacey Klamath stares at me from a chair near the window, her eyes wide and doelike. Her blond hair is styled in a short pixie cut, and her serene expression gives no sign of recognizing me, gives no hint of emotion. I almost call out to her but stop short when I see a nurse appear at her side, placing a small Dixie cup in her hand. Obediently and without complaint, Lacey swallows whatever’s inside and goes back to staring blankly ahead.

When the handler pushes me through the doors marked THERAPY WING, I turn to face forward again. She’s here—Lacey is here. Although I’m glad to know she’s safe, it’s obvious she’s . . . different. I don’t know what they’ve done to her, but I have to lock the thought away. I’ll come back for her. Just like I pray James will come back for me.

They don’t free my arms once I’m inside the doctor’s office. I sit on the wrong side of a huge oak desk that’s cluttered with papers. This isn’t The Program I was in before, even if Nurse Kell is still playing the role of Nurse Ratched. Since I left Oregon, other facilities have opened up around the country. There’s no way to tell what state I’m even in.

Unlike the hospital feel in the hallways, this office is homey, yet masculine. There are rows of bookshelves lining the hunter-green walls, a heavy maroon rug under the ornate chair they’ve fastened me to. This reminds me of someone’s high-end man cave, complete with a standing globe that could be filled with liquor bottles.

Are they trying to create a false sense of comfort? Normalcy? Doesn’t matter, I guess. I have to find Dallas and make sure she’s okay. She’s always been the one to get information for us, but now it’s my turn.

Doors open behind me, and I clench my muscles. I half expect Dr. Warren to walk up, her brown hair in a cute ponytail—so nonthreatening and relatable. But the figure who rounds my chair is not Dr. Warren. I watch as a man sits in the leather chair on the other side of the desk.

He looks up after opening my file and smiles warmly. “Hello, Sloane,” he says. His voice is clipped as if he’s spent years getting rid of an accent. He has a manicured salt-and-pepper beard, highlighting what would be a handsome face—except for the scar that splits through his top lip. Even still, it doesn’t make him unattractive, just a little edgier than the sterile doctors I’m used to. I look him over, my thoughts honest because of the drugs coursing through my veins.

“My name is Dr. Beckett,” he says, and pulls a pair of thin wire-rimmed glasses from his front pocket. He puts them on, studying me. “I see they’ve already given you the medication.” He jots something on the paper in my file. “That’s unusual.”

“I would say most of this is unusual.” My voice is hoarse, and Dr. Beckett puts his elbows on the desk, leaning closer.

“I tend to agree, Sloane. You’ve already been through The Program. What could have happened to land you here twice? Has the depression set in again?”

“Are you joking?” I ask. “I’m here because I tried to get away. Because you’re all a bunch of psychopaths!” My outburst is immediately met with another rush of warmth, and I curse as my head lulls to the side. I don’t want to be relaxed. I want to tear this place apart.

The doctor nods his head solemnly. “Seems you’ve grown delusional. It’s not uncommon.” He jots down a note in my file. “When suicidal, patients often misinterpret the world around them. They grow paranoid. Think everyone’s out to the get them. It’s too bad you feel so alone. We were all really rooting for you.”

“I’m sure.”

“Oh, come now,” he says, waving his hand. “Use your common sense, Sloane. You can’t really believe we wanted you to fail. In fact, Nurse Kell personally requested this assignment. We want you to be successful. Think of your potential. You could have been such a help to the community—a poster child. Pretty, smart, flawed. The public would have embraced you as a motivational speaker. You would have convinced kids to volunteer for The Program instead of us having to seek them out. But you didn’t follow your doctor’s instructions. Or your handler’s.” He pauses, and folds his hands in front of him. “I am sorry to hear about Kevin. He was a good man. We worked together in another facility.”

Although the medication should keep my calm, at the mention of Kevin I sit up straighter; the ties on my wrists squeeze in protest. “What did you do to him?”

Dr. Beckett shakes his head as if he doesn’t know what I’m talking about. “Me? No, my dear. He became sick again because of you. Because of the stress you and James Murphy inflicted on him. Kevin took a dive from the St. Johns Bridge shortly after you skipped town.”

It’s a crushing blow, and I lower my face. Pain, sharp and jagged, rips into me before the medicine can try to mask it. Kevin isn’t in The Program. He’s dead. “You killed him,” I whisper, squeezing my eyes shut.

“Don’t be silly,” the doctor says with a twinge of annoyance. “We wanted to help Kevin, but he chose another way. They do that sometimes—the sick ones. My question is”—he takes off his glasses—“what will you decide? Given the chance, would you kill yourself, Sloane? Would you go that far to keep your infected memories?”

Yes. I think my short answer is yes—but why is this the question? Why are there no other viable options? I want to be strong. I shout inside my head that I have to be strong, but really I start to fall apart. Kevin—my handler, my friend—is dead. The Program could have thrown him off the bridge for all I know, but even if he did jump, he did it to protect us. The Program pressured him into it. And when they start to exert that same force on me, what will I do? Everything is gone. They’ve changed Lacey. They’ll change me. Is life worth living?

“Do we have to keep you restrained for your own protection, Sloane?” Dr. Beckett asks gently.

“Yes,” I respond, defiant and angry. “Yes, you do.”

Dr. Beckett exhales and then falls against the backrest of his seat. “That’s too bad.” He presses a call button on his phone. “Have Nurse Kell stand by with the next dose,” he says, shooting me a wary look. He takes a moment to compose himself, folding up his glasses before tucking them into his pocket. I have a thought that he wears them only to appear more official. We’re apparently skipping that stage of our relationship.

“We can be friends,” he tells me in a soft voice, “if you want. But there is one definite to our equation: You will never, ever, leave this place with your memories. We just can’t allow it. Try and understand our position.”

“You’re monsters.”

“Are we? Or are we the cure for a worldwide epidemic? All vaccines came with an initial loss. Aren’t you willing to die for future generations?”

“No. Are you willing to kill me for them?”

“Yes. Simply, the answer is yes.”

I don’t remember my time in The Program. Were they always this blunt? This terrifying? Or has my current situation stripped away the niceties? Part of me wishes he’d lie to me, say something to placate the fear. Then again, his honesty will keep me grounded, keep my purpose renewed.

“Now,” Dr. Beckett says, “I know you’ve been under extreme duress. Have any memories resurfaced?”

There’s a jab of grief that comes with the knowledge that I’ll once again lose the pieces, lose Miller. But if I hope to get out of this alive, I’ll have to play along—at least for a little while. “Yes,” I say. “But not negative ones. I’ll . . . I’ll tell you about them, no fighting. No lying. But first you have to do something for me. I need to know that Dallas is okay.”

The doctor smiles, seeming pleased that I’m willing to participate in my recovery. “Ah, yes. Dallas Stone. Seems her illness is fairly progressive. They don’t expect her to survive the night without extreme measures. She’s in solitary until further notice.”

“What? You can’t just lock her up. She’s not an animal!”

“She was ripping out her own hair. She’s a danger to herself and others. For God’s sake, she stabbed a handler.”

“He deserved it!” I shout.

“She’s gone completely mad. She’ll kill someone.”

“Let me talk to her. Please.” I yank on my restraints, wishing I could clasp my hands in front of me to show him how sincere I am. Dr. Beckett tilts his head, seeming to weigh his options. “She’s my friend,” I plead. “I can calm her down.” Dallas is my friend, one I would fight for. I wish I would have realized this sooner, gotten us out that house before The Program showed up.

“You really think you can get through to her?” he asks cautiously.

“Yes.” I breathe out. “I really do.” Although helping Dallas is part of the reasoning, I’m more concerned with her keeping her shit together until I figure out what to do. We’ll need each other to stay sane.

After a long moment Dr. Beckett nods and presses a button on the intercom—watching me as he talks. “Please take Miss Barstow down to solitary to speak with the patient. Keep them both close.” When he sits back in the chair, he picks up my file and glances through it once again.

“I hope you really can talk her down, Sloane,” he says, slapping the manila folder on the desk. “Because if not, you’ll really hate what comes next.”

CHAPTER TWO

THE HANDLER PUSHING MY WHEELCHAIR smells like cigarette smoke. He’s the same one who brought me from my room earlier, but Nurse Kell is nowhere in sight. This small fluctuation, the fact that he doesn’t smell like a Band-Aid, is a bit of hope. It reminds me of—

I lower my face, tears gathering now that the medicine’s calming effects have started to wane. Kevin is dead. Lacey will be devastated. The painful fact is that it really could be my fault. If I had followed the rules, Kevin wouldn’t have had to help me. He would still be alive.

There’s a brush against my shoulder, and then a cloth is wiped across my eyes, over my cheeks, under my nose. I shrug away, and when I look back at the handler, he’s tucking a handkerchief into his pocket.

“You’re crying,” he says in a low voice. “Don’t do that.”

I scoff, ready to tell him to drop dead because what does he care? I’m crying over a real tragedy, and he’s just some asshole working for The Program. Before I can, the handler stops at a doorway with a small rectangular window and then takes a keycard from the retractable chain at his waistband. He pushes the door open, weaving his head as he tries to see inside the dimly lit room. He takes the Taser from his hip and disappears inside. I’m listening for Dallas’s scream, or worse, the sound of her hitting the floor, but the silence stretches on until the handler emerges with a stony expression. He comes behind my chair again and pushes me inside the room. He unfastens my hands, giving me a stern look as warning, and then walks out, closing the door behind him.

Solitary is darker than the other places in the hospital I’ve seen, but it’s not gloomy. The floor is covered in gray rubber tiles, and the walls have white padding. There’s a small set of track lights, but there are no windows. The corners of the room are set in shadows. That’s where I find Dallas, sitting on the floor with her hands bound in front of her. She’s wearing bright-yellow scrubs that wash out her complexion. When she recognizes me, she smiles broadly. Her gap-toothed grin is no longer charming, not when she looks insane.

“Did I kill him?” she asks.

Has she been focused on Roger this entire time? “I don’t know,” I say. “Last I heard, the ambulance was coming for him.” I hate the disappointed look in her eyes. What’s become of us—wishing for someone’s death? What has The Program done to us?

“Did they find Realm?” she asks.

“I don’t know. They haven’t mentioned him yet.” I don’t want to voice the possibility that Roger could have hurt him. This way I can hope that Realm got away. Right now he might be the only person who can save us. James will be able to remember—he took The Treatment—but he’s still somewhere in The Program. I just hope he’s all right.

“No one gets away,” Dallas says, rocking gently. Her entire demeanor is smaller, vulnerable. “The Program will find Realm. It’s only a matter of time, because somewhere in your head is a clue that will help find him. They’ll get it out of you. Or me,” she reasons, rolling her eyes up to the ceiling. “But probably not me because I’ll be dead.”

“Dallas,” I whisper, leaning forward in the chair. “I need you right now. We need each other. Pull yourself together or it’s over.”

“It’s already over.”

“No.” I climb down from the chair, my body still lethargic from the earlier medication. I take Dallas’s hands in mine, trying to draw her back. Trying to wake her up. “We survived The Program before,” I say. “We can do it again. Do you know who I saw? Lacey—she’s here.”

This seems to invoke mild interest in Dallas’s expression. Her dark eyes widen, a slight curve in her lip. “She’s alive?”

I nod emphatically, hiding my despair at Lacey’s actual condition. “She is,” I say. “And now we just have to hang on. You have to hang on, Dallas, until I figure out what to do.”

“I’m tired of fighting,” she whispers. “Cas was right—it’s too hard. I think I’d rather die.”

Her sadness fills the room, fills me. I wrap my arms around her in a hug, absorbing her pain as best I can. Her hair no longer smells earthy; it smells of wet paper. Of something breaking down and dissolving. In a way Dallas is exactly where she belongs—she’s suicidal, and without this intervention . . . she’d be dead. I can’t let that happen.

“You have to be stronger,” I say bleakly. She feels tiny in my arms, fragile. “You don’t get to quit. I won’t let you.”

There’s a click behind me, and the door opens. The handler stands there, his face hidden in gray shadows. It’s time for me to leave. I pull back and put my hands on her cheeks, but I see she’s not there—not really. Her eyes are unfocused, unfeeling. It’s like Dallas is already dead.

I’ll save us, I mouth, feeling the sting of tears. Just fight a little longer.

The handler walks over and takes my arm; he isn’t rough, but firm. He sets me back in the chair, reattaching the restraints and keeping an eye on Dallas. She watches, but doesn’t have any reaction. She’s lost inside her head right now.

I murmur my good-bye to Dallas as the handler backs me out of the room. We’re gliding through the hall, and I’m completely grief-stricken. Dallas is crazy, Lacey is erased; right now I’m the only one left standing, and ironically enough, I’m strapped down to a wheelchair. I can’t wait around for James or Realm to show up and rescue me. I’ll have to gather information, explore this facility, and figure out how to get out of here. I know what The Program wants from me: complacency. I’ll need to brush up on my acting skills.

“Any chance you could take me on a tour?” I turn to the handler, asking as sweetly as possible. There’s a small tug of a smile on his lips as he flicks a quick look in my direction. He has hazel eyes, not remarkable or arresting like James’s, but they seem kind. He’s definitely more human than the other handlers I’ve seen—with the exception of Kevin.

“It’s a little late for guided tours,” he says in that same soft voice. “Maybe tomorrow.”

I straighten up, disappointed but not completely deterred. I’ll block out the sadness, get rid of the emotions. I was telling Dallas the truth. I will save us.

I have to.

There is quiet humming when I open my eyes. The morning sun filters in the surely sealed window of my room. I blink quickly and then turn to see Nurse Kell sitting in a chair next to my bed, knitting, of all things. I watch her, a bit disoriented, before I clear my voice to talk.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

She doesn’t glance up, but the humming stops as the clicking of the metal needles continues. “I was letting you sleep in,” she says. “You looked so tired yesterday.”

I clench my teeth but then remember my promise to myself the night before. I have to play along. “Yes, well,” I say reasonably, “it could have been the medication you gave me.”

She stops and lowers her needles. “I suppose. But maybe we won’t need them this morning. Dr. Beckett would like to see you.”

“Okay. But any chance I can get out of these restraints on a permanent basis? They’re rubbing my wrists raw.”

Kell’s face flinches and she looks down toward my arms. “Poor thing,” she says, examining the skin. “I’ll check on your progress and see what I can do. The answer will be up to you, of course.”

It’s so hard to keep my sarcastic tongue from lashing out at her. Because if it was up to me, not only would I not need to be tied down, I wouldn’t be in this horrible place. I want to spit in Nurse Kell’s face, tell her how cruel she is. I just lower my head.

“I’ll try my best.” I sit there passively, but inside I’m boiling over. “Why do you do this, Kell? What’s in it for you?”

She seems genuinely surprised by the question, and sets her knitting aside. “I’m saving lives. I’ve even saved yours once.”

Does she really think that? I look her over, seeing that she does. Her round face, her short, curled red hair isn’t sinister. She could be someone’s doting grandmother. “You know what they’re doing to us,” I say, my facade falling away. “They’re changing us against our wills. They’re ruining our lives.”

Nurse Kell’s small green eyes weaken. “I know you think that, honey,” she says, “but you’re wrong. I’ve been a nurse for thirty years, and nothing, nothing could have prepared me for what happened when the epidemic started. I don’t think you realize—”

“I lived through it,” I interrupt.

“Yes, you were sick and lived through it. Which means you never saw it clearly. Those infected have thoughts that are skewed and false. I pulled a butter knife out of a fifteen-year-old’s throat. That’s when The Program decided spoons were a better option in the cafeteria. I got on a chair and cut the sheet a thirteen-year-old hung herself from, spirals carved with her nails into the soft flesh of her forearm.” Kell’s cheeks glow pink and she leans closer. “I buried two grandchildren in the past year, Sloane. So don’t assume that I don’t know about the epidemic. I know it far better than you do. I’m just a person willing to do what I can to stop it.”

I’m speechless. She’s a human being after all. “Why are you at this hospital?” I ask finally. “Why did you request to be my nurse here?”

She smiles and reaches to brush my hair behind my ear. “Because I’ve seen where you started—I saw the darkness in your eyes. I’m not going to give up on you until you’re well again.” Her expression tells me she thinks this is a noble cause and that I should be grateful. Maybe if they weren’t my memories she helped erase, I’d see her good intentions.

Inside I’m screaming, Thank you for ruining my life! I can barely keep my voice steady when I murmur, “Thank you for saving me,” instead.

After our heart-to-heart, Nurse Kell helps me dress. I’m in a fresh pair of yellow scrubs with fuzzy slipper socks when she calls in the handler. He’s the one from last night, and my anxiety eases slightly, even though I’m not entirely sure why. He could be just as horrible as all the rest.

“Asa,” Nurse Kell calls to him as he pushes in the wheelchair. “Can you bring Sloane to see Dr. Beckett? He’s expecting her.” The handler doesn’t respond, but he does take my hand to help me into the chair, an unusual show of kindness that catches me off guard.

“It’ll all be better soon,” Nurse Kell says as she gently straps down my wrists. Then she steps back, and Asa steers me from the room before I can respond.

The handler is gliding me through the halls once again, like a continuation from last night, but this time our pace is slower. He’s taking his time. There are several patients walking freely, but none of them is Lacey. I look for her, both dreading and needing to see her. To see what’s left of her.

“I want to show you something,” Asa says quietly, pushing the button that opens a set of double doors—ones that don’t lead to the therapy wing. I glance over my shoulder at him, trying to discern why he’d be sneaking me around. He reminds me of Realm, so I don’t argue. We begin down a quiet wing where the white walls fade to a dusty gray.

“Any chance this is the way out?” I ask, trying to lighten the heaviness that’s fallen on his posture. Asa doesn’t look at me, only straight ahead.

“Not exactly.”

My heart thumps hard, and I face front again. My ease is starting to evaporate, quickly replaced with anxiety. Asa’s pace slows as we approach another set of doors. “This is where they keep them,” he murmurs.

“Them?” It’s obvious this part of the hospital isn’t in regular use. It’s quiet—mausoleum quiet—and the air smells lightly of urine. Fear is about to get the best of me and I begin to tug on the restraints, subtly at first, but then more aggressively. I don’t know where he’s taking me. I don’t know what’s happening!

And then suddenly we stop. We’re in a large room—much like the leisure room, but instead of distractions and card games, there are a few scattered wheelchairs with people in gray scrubs. They’re all facing a window, or in one case, facing a black-and-white painting on the wall. Several of them have a white patch over their left eye.

“What’s going on?” I ask in a shaky voice.

“Doctors found that color disturbs them this soon after surgery,” Asa murmurs. “Noise, too. They keep them isolated until their minds are a bit steadier.”

I spin around in the chair, the pressure on my wrists enough to make me wince. “Are you saying these people have been lobotomized?”

Asa nods, meeting my gaze. “That’s exactly what I’m saying, Sloane. This is what this facility does. You’re one of the untreatable—this is what’s going to happen to you.”

The world starts to close in on me, and I search the room once again, trying to make sense of it. Although lobotomy was always a threat, I didn’t know it was definite. I never pictured it like this. I don’t think I believed it could happen to me. “But I’m cooperating,” I say in a small voice. “I’m telling them—”

“They’re extracting the information they need, and then you’ll end up here. They all do.”

I blink and feel a warm tear slip over my cheek and drip onto my thigh. I’m stunned, horrified, traumatized by what Asa is showing me. I don’t know what to do. I’m so goddamn afraid, I can’t think.

“You have about a week,” Asa says, “before they’ll bring you down here. The longer you can hold out on the information, the more time you buy yourself. I just wanted you to know the stakes, Sloane.”

A week. I have my life for one more week. How does someone process this information without spiraling into complete madness? What does he expect me to do? I can’t just bust myself out. This is almost like another form of torture.

“Why did you bring me here?” I murmur, staring again at the backs of heads, the slumped shoulders, the empty souls.

“There’s someone here I thought you should see.”

James. I try and leap from the chair, searching for him, but I am immediately pulled back by the restraints as they bite into my skin. Please, no. Please.

Asa bends down, his cheek close to mine as he reaches past me, pointing to one chair across the room. From the profile I can see it’s an old man, and I sputter out a relieved cry because it’s not James. The handler turns, the bristle of his scruff tickling my skin.

“They’ve crushed the rebellion,” he whispers. “But James and Michael Realm got away, and now any hope of ending  The Program lies with you and your friends. I wanted you to know how little time you have left to figure out how.”

James is okay. Oh my God, James got away. But my solace is short-lived as I stare straight ahead at the man in the chair. I recognize him. “Arthur?” I ask, my voice cracking over his name.

Asa stands and pushes me closer to the doctor. I’m in disbelief as I study him, his gray beard, his wrinkled skin. He has a patch over his eye and there’s a thin line of drool from his lip to the chest of his gray scrubs.

I start to cry. “Arthur?” I call again, hoping he’ll just snap out of it and look at me. But he doesn’t react at all. He stares at nothing, seeing nothing. Knowing nothing. Arthur Pritchard is dead and his body is left behind to rot. “I’m sorry I didn’t believe you,” I whimper. “I’m sorry they did this to you.” I flex my fingers as if I can reach out and touch him, but Asa backs the chair away.

“We have to go,” Asa says solemnly. I watch Arthur the entire way to the door, wishing I would have done everything differently. Because what hope do I have now? What hope could I possibly have when The Program has lobotomized its creator?

CHAPTER THREE

ASA SAYS NOTHING AS HE parks my wheelchair in the center of Dr. Beckett’s office, leaving me there alone. My entire body is shaking, horrified by the image of Arthur Pritchard emptied out. He’s no longer a factor in our future. He has none. That’s going to be me in a week unless I figure out what to do.

Is that what happened to Lacey? Was she like Arthur? Is she empty? Fresh tears threaten to brim over, but I sniffle and try to blink them away. My wrists are still tied down, so I won’t have a way to wipe my face before Dr. Beckett arrives. I need a plan. And I need one fast.

The door opens behind me, and I take a deep breath and wait as the doctor comes to the other side of his desk, studying me as he walks. He looks the same as he did before, except now that I know the extent of The Program, I’m truly afraid of him.

“Hello, Sloane,” he says good-naturedly. “How did your talk with Dallas go?”

Dallas. She probably has less time than I do. Who knows, they could have lobotomized her already this morning. “It went well,” I say, offering a pressed-lip smile. “She’s sick, but not beyond your help.”

Dr. Beckett nods to himself, taking a seat as he seems to think over my words. “Is that your expert opinion?”

I don’t like his sarcasm, but I hold back. “I’m not an expert, but I’ve seen depression. I know Dallas wants to live, deep down. I think you can save her.”

“Interesting.” The doctor opens my file again, his pen scratching quickly onto the white papers clipped down. “You seem to have had quite a change of heart since yesterday. What can I attribute this miraculous reversal to?”

“Nurse Kell,” I lie. “She told me why she asked to be my nurse and why she’s part of The Program. What can I say? It resonated.”

Beckett laughs and pushes his papers away from him. “That so? Well, Sloane,” he says, “you’ll excuse me if I don’t buy into your change right away. Authentic or not, we take therapy very seriously and we can’t just accept your word for it. We have to continue, and the way I see it, you have two choices: You can voluntarily give up your memories, or we can take them. Now, I know that neither may seem like a good option, but I promise you—the first one is better.”

He’s right. I might have thought his threat empty, or at least had some reason to think I could outsmart him, if I hadn’t seen for myself. “I’ll do whatever it takes to get out of here,” I tell the doctor. “On that you have my word.”

“I’m so very happy to hear that. Because we need your help tracking down Michael Realm.”

“W-what?” I stammer. He can’t expect me to give up Realm—even if I did know where he was, he’s with James. I have to protect them.

“Yes, Michael is a friend of yours from your time in The Program. Actually”—he smiles—“it says here it was a little more serious than that. Seems Mr. Realm has gone off the grid since then, but he’s not really allowed to do that, you see. He’s under contract.”

An icy shiver trickles down my spine. “What do you mean ‘contract’?”

Dr. Beckett seems taken aback. “You don’t know? He didn’t tell you while you were together on the run?” When I don’t answer, partly because I don’t want to admit being with Realm, and partly because I think I know what the doctor is about to say. Somehow—I know.

“Michael Realm is a handler, Sloane. An embedded handler who was assigned to help erase you, and then later, assigned to track you and the rebels down. Only, he must have gotten caught up in your cause, or more likely, gotten sick. We need to find him before he harms himself.”

My lips work, but no words are coming out. Realm is . . . a handler? Realm . . . My eyelids flutter, and I’m on the verge of fainting as my shoulder hits the metal bar of the wheelchair. Realm helped erase me and then tracked me down for The Program? Is any of that true? Could it be?

Realm ignores James, looking at me with a sort of reverence. “So you’re happy to see me?” he asks, as if he’s scared of the answer.

“Yes. What kind of question is that?”

He smiles, dropping his hand. “Of course,” he repeats. “You didn’t take it.”

My world breaks apart and I begin fighting my restraints. I understand now what Realm meant the first time I saw him after he gave me the pill. At one point I must have known exactly what he was. He thought I remembered that.

“No!” I scream, my skin scoring under the restraints. Tears roll down my cheeks and my throat becomes raw. I start to sob, so betrayed, so hurt. My wrists slide around in the blood as I shred my flesh under the buckle. Dr. Beckett moves around the desk to undo my restraints, and once freed, I make no move other than to cover my face and cry. “Realm,” I say, moaning. “What have you done?”

My best friend helped to destroy who I was. He worked for The Program—he was never my friend. How could he be, when he had inside information on my life? My relationships? I was being manipulated the entire time. And now he’s with James. What is he going to do?

I feel stupid. I feel alone. Dr. Beckett puts his arm around me in a show of support, and I turn and cry into the crisp collar of his button-up shirt, smearing blood on his sleeves. I wish I could see Michael Realm again. Just so I can kill him.

A dozen other memories want to surface, ones where Realm is kind and caring, always looking out for me. But I growl at the lies of them and push back from Dr. Beckett. He quickly grabs my arms, pinning me down.

“Stay calm,” he says soothingly. But it’s no use. I’m ready to tear him apart. Tear this place apart. “We will catch Michael Realm,” he says, close to my face. “And then you’ll be free of his lies.”

I lift my chin defiantly. “How do I know you’re not the one who’s lying?”

Beckett lets go of my arms and sits in the chair beside me. “Don’t be naive. You already knew, Sloane. Maybe you didn’t want to admit it, but you knew. Michael Realm, your friends in The Program—Shepard, Derek, Tabitha. They’re all part of this, Sloane.”

I stare at him a moment, quickly picking through everyone I’ve ever known, suspicious of every friend I can remember. There’s no way to know the truth anymore. There’s no way to know who or what is real. “And Cas,” I say. “You had Cas, too.”

The doctor shakes his head. “Casanova Gutierrez was merely an informant. He’s not on the payroll. We struck a deal with him—The Treatment in exchange for your freedom. At least he had a noble cause. Unfortunately, when the handlers arrived, it was obvious you’d all been infected. They told me they had no choice but to take you into custody. Suicide is contagious, after all, and you’re all a high-level threat. We’ve let Mr. Gutierrez go, though. We try to keep our word.”

I ball my hands into fists, bloodstains dotting my scrubs. I don’t believe Dr. Beckett. They never planned to fulfill their bargain, just like they don’t plan to let me go now. Asa confirmed it. I can’t possibly take this all in; no one could. Dr. Beckett is trying to drive me insane, have me submit to The Program. Why? I’m not that special. I’m not worth this much pain and effort. What more do they want from me? They’ve taken everything  !

I jump up from the chair and grab the paperweight off Beckett’s desk—a cast-iron brain with its different parts highlighted. I hold it up, and Dr. Beckett slowly rises from his chair, his eyes narrowed as he darts a look from me to the raised paperweight.

“Put it down, Sloane,” he says in a low voice. “I’m going to tell you only once.” The door opens behind him, as if our whole conversation had been monitored from the start. Asa stands there, his face unreadable. And then he silently shakes his head. I feel myself break, crack, and fall apart. I won’t get out this way—not by killing a doctor who can be replaced so easily. It’s bigger than that. It’s bigger than me.

I drop the brain to the floor, where it clanks loudly even through the carpet. Dr. Beckett’s hand shoots out, and I push him back hard enough to make him stumble over the chair and onto the floor. I start to scream, pull my hair, before Asa rushes over. I’m losing it. I’m totally fucking losing it. Asa pins my arms to my side, locking me in his grip as he holds my body against his, immobilizing me. I continue to yell as Dr. Beckett tries to stand, and I kick out my feet, barely missing him.

Nurse Kell is fumbling with the cap of a syringe, running into the room amid the chaos I’m creating. I have only a moment to meet her concerned eyes before she stabs me in the thigh with a sedative. Soon I’m sliding from Asa’s arms back into the chair, my cries fading into soft whimpers. Nurse Kell kneels beside me, wiping my face as I stare at her helplessly.

“Shh . . .” she whispers. “It’s almost over, Sloane. Just a few days and this will all be over.”

The words renew my cries, and I turn to my gaze to Asa who only looks through me, his jaw set hard. I’m all alone in this. And I can finally see that I always was.

I’m not sure how much time has passed, but I’m in the office with Dr. Beckett, my body slung across the chair, bandages wrapped around my wrists. My clarity fades in and out. I’m destroyed, but the medication has brought me numbness. A foggy contentment I can’t fight. Dr. Beckett takes this as cooperation, and I guess it is. Except for the part where I don’t really have a choice.

“Michael Realm was sent to recover you and James,” Beckett says. “Unfortunately, he cut off contact shortly after leaving the facility. It wasn’t until Arthur Pritchard became involved that we got a lead on your whereabouts. It’s not unusual for us to keep an eye on our employees, but I must admit that Arthur’s interest in The Treatment was an unforeseen complication. What did the doctor promise you, Sloane? Did you give him The Treatment?”

They don’t know. I smile to myself, grateful James took The Treatment before The Program got their hands on it. I know he won’t melt down—he’s too damn cocky to let The Program beat him. He’s with Realm now, but with The Program looking for my former friend, he’s not that likely to hand James over. I look at the doctor from under my wet lashes. “Arthur wanted to undo the damage done by The Program,” I say. “He was going to set us back and treat the depression the way it should have been before you corrupted the therapy.”

Dr. Beckett’s expression falters, and he leans closer. “Arthur Pritchard’s methods failed. The Program had to evolve. And there’s no guarantee The Treatment can even be reproduced. They say Evelyn Valentine used stem cells—which is illegal. Did he talk about that?”

Even through my numbness, I can feel the satisfaction. They know nothing about The Treatment, and he’s hoping I can give him details. I’ve never been so happy to not have the answers. “I guess you’ll have to ask Arthur,” I say, knowing full well Arthur won’t be able to tell them anything. Not after what they’ve done to him.

I look at a high shelf on the other side of the room, where Beckett moved his paperweight, its presence surely making him unsettled. I could have killed him. Maybe I should have.

“What do you want with Realm now?” I ask, my lips slurring my words. “You have us in custody. Even if he didn’t hand us over himself, he did his job. Why do you still want to take his memories?”

Dr. Beckett folds his hands in front of him on the desk. “He’s a liability,” he says simply. “We’re going to erase him completely.”

My affection for Realm flares, even though I hate him—hate what he’s done. I sniffle hard and wipe my cheek on my shoulder, refusing to give in to the sympathy. Realm betrayed me. I can’t forgive that.

“Good,” I say finally, even though I don’t really mean it. “Good.”

Asa walks me back to my room, leaving the wheelchair in the hall outside of Dr. Beckett’s office. His arm is around my waist as he supports me. Once standing, the true effect of the medication can be felt, and I’m woozy and unsteady.

“Just a little bit farther,” Asa says, taking a turn down my corridor.

“You should have used the wheelchair,” I mumble, and reach to touch the wall so I can get my bearings. “How come I’m not restrained anymore? Aren’t you afraid I’ll bludgeon you?”

“No,” he says. Asa gives nothing away, his face always stoic, his movements purposeful. When we get to my room, he pulls back my sheet with one arm, supporting me with the other. He helps me into the bed, and I feel the pain of all that’s happened today. Asa stands for a moment, looking down at me, and I reach up my hand to him.

“Why are you helping me?” I ask. He takes my hand, and squeezes it reassuringly.

“Because Realm asked me to.”

My eyes widen, and I yank my arm away from him, but Asa grabs my hand again and holds it against his chest. “Realm cares about you,” he says forcefully. “He asked me to look out for you.”

I don’t want to listen. I use my other hand to try to strike Asa, but he blocks it easily, grabbing both of my sore wrists and making me cry out in pain. “Calm down, Sloane,” he says, pinning me to the bed.

“Michael Realm is a lie,” I growl, continuing to fight until Asa has to lock my hands at my side once again.

“We’re all lies, Sloane,” he says. “Every single one of us is hiding who we really are.”

“Not like that.” I start to cry again, and behind it is anger. I turn my body from side to side in the bed, fighting—against what I’m not sure. I thought Realm loved me. I was so wrong about everything. “I hate him,” I say with a sob, the grief finally too overwhelming. I turn my face into the pillow. “I hate him.”

I feel Asa’s hand touch my head, a gentle brush through my hair. He does this until I start to drift toward sleep, a release from pain the medication can’t give me. And just before I slip away, I hear Asa whisper, “Michael will be very sad to hear that.”

CHAPTER FOUR

WHEN I WAKE UP THE next morning, there’s a sharp pain in my head like I’ve been smacked with a hammer. My hands fly up to feel for any incision, as if the doctors had given me a lobotomy while I slept. There’s nothing but the knots of my hair.

My hands. I look down, surprised to see I’m no longer fastened to the bed. I hold up my arms, seeing the red marks and bruises on my wrists still there, but I’m grateful to be free. There’s an ache in my chest, a deep dread. I have to tell Dallas about Realm, everything about him. From their past together to the part where he’s a handler, a filthy liar. The part where I hate him.

I glance around the room, remembering how Asa took me to that awful place with the lobotomized patients to see Arthur Pritchard drooling on himself. What exactly does the handler think I can do about it? If it was that easy to escape, others would have gotten out. I’m trapped, and I’m not sure if the knowledge Asa gave me is hurting or helping me.

To keep my sanity, I run through the chronology of my life—or, at least, my life after The Program. James and I met at the Wellness Center the day after I returned. He was mean to me on and off until he became more on. He stuck up for me, including a few times when Realm crossed a line. Realm . . .

I swallow hard and shake my head to keep from screaming. I’m burning up with fury, but that kind of emotion isn’t going to help. I need to think clearly. I have to figure a way out. But no sooner does the rage come that it’s replaced with a shock of warmth spreading over my chest. The medication must contain an inhibitor that settles my frazzled nerves. I remember it from my first days after The Program.

Without supervision I climb down from the bed, moving slowly to test my limbs, afraid to make any sudden movements. When I’m steady, I change into the fresh set of scrubs that were laid out on my bed. I leave my room, tentative and anxious, looking over my shoulder. There are voices down the hall, and I head in that direction.

There’s a waiting room, a smaller version of the leisure room. There are four other patients in there, watching the television mounted on the wall—an infomercial on The Program, it looks like—and two others sitting by the window and staring. I see that one of them is Lacey.

I smile reflexively but then temper my expression down as I approach her. I don’t want to scare her. I pause. Can I scare her? Will she even know what’s going on? I crush the heartache that comes along with that thought.

“Hi,” I say in a scratchy voice when I’m standing next to her. Lacey continues to stare out the window without any noticeable reaction to my words. I check for a scar, but I don’t see one. I’m not sure how they perform lobotomies; I’ve never really thought to research it.

Suddenly Lacey turns to me. She drifts her gaze over my features, and her lips part slowly. “Is it time for breakfast?” she asks in a too-soft voice. Deep sadness burrows through my chest, but I try my best to smile.

“Not yet,” I tell her kindly.

“Oh.” She turns back to the window, her thoughts seemingly a gentle breeze in her mind, no urgency, no fear, no anxiety. I try to think of what I can say, what I can tell her to let her know that I care about her. I’m so sorry I didn’t save her from The Program. I’m so sorry this happened to her.

“Sloane?” The sound of Nurse Kell’s voice startles me, and I glance over my shoulder to where she stands in the doorway. Her expression is steeped in suspicion, and when she calls my name again, scolding me like a child, I know my time with Lacey is up.

“I’ll talk to you soon,” I say to my friend, trying to communicate in my tone that I hope to see her again. She offers one more uninterested look and then goes back to enjoying the view of the courtyard instead.

My heart is heavy as I approach Nurse Kell. I wilt under the accusation in her expression and quickly try to explain. “I didn’t know where to go when I woke up,” I tell her as soon as I’m close enough. “You weren’t there.”

She takes my arm to lead me from the room. “Asa should have left you restrained, then. Sloane, you aren’t ready to interact with the other patients yet. You’re a threat to them.”

I turn to Nurse Kell as we walk back toward the prison of my room. “Are you going to tie me down?” I ask, finding it impossible to control the rage bubbling up. “Because I thought I was being pretty cooperative so far.”

“Oh, honey,” she says in a patronizing voice. “You are. But it’s just not healthy for the other patients to interact with you. You’re still too sick. You could start a whole new epidemic in here. Give it another week. The time will fly.”

In a week I’ll be lobotomized. Nurse Kell must know this, and yet she’s talking to me like I should be thankful. Any camaraderie she’d tried to build evaporates right then. I gnash my teeth together, saying nothing.

“I left your breakfast in your room,” she says. “I thought you’d be more comfortable there.” She stops just outside my door and motions for me to enter ahead of her. I see the metal tray on a rolling cart next to my bed. The food is covered with tan plastic bowls to keep it warm. I think back to something Lacey once told me—that they put sedatives in the food. I’m starving right now—ravenous really. Can I handle a little bit of medication to get some nutrients? Is it worth the risk?

I step inside my room, walking toward the tray, when I hear the door shut behind me. I turn and hear the click of the lock. My heart dips, and I rush over to try the handle.

Kell just locked me in. I look around the room for something, anything, to pick the lock with. But The Program is careful. The sharpest thing in my room is the plastic spoon that came with my breakfast. Trapped, I go over to my bed and sit, lifting the lid to my food and finding happy face pancakes.

I stare at them a long moment, the irony—or cruelty—of them too much. And then I flip the tray, sending it to the floor with a loud clank, and curl up on my side, staring out the window.

Dr. Beckett doesn’t ask to see me, and the hours alone in my room stretch on until I feel the psychosis. Murmuring to myself, imagining shapes in the wood grain of the door, I start to doubt anyone will ever come for me again, not until they’re ready to take me to the gray room.

At lunch Nurse Kell comes to drop off my next meal. The minute I see her, I’m at her side, begging her to let me out. I think I might lose it completely if I don’t at least get out of this room. But Nurse Kell only glances at me on her way to the overturned tray of breakfast food.

“Sorry, Sloane,” she says. “You can’t come out yet. I’m sorry.”

The news is devastating, but it doesn’t seem to bother her as she sops up the spilled orange juice that’s turned sticky on the floor.

“What am I supposed to do for the rest of my time, then? Is this another version of solitary confinement?”

Nurse Kell exhales and then stands to look me over. “Dr. Beckett was called away for the afternoon. He’ll see you when he gets back. For now he wants you to stay in your room and out of trouble. There’s no sense in getting worked up. Now eat your lunch.”

I glance down at the sandwich, surprised by how appetizing it looks. I don’t remember the last time I’ve eaten—maybe not since I arrived here. My stomach growls in agreement. I drop helplessly on my bed and pick up my sandwich, taking a tentative bite. I wait for a chalky or bitter taste, something to prove that I’m being drugged. But it just tastes like turkey.

“Under the plate there’s some paper,” Nurse Kell says, coming over to shake out a napkin to lay over my lap. “Dr. Beckett thought you might want to write out some of your thoughts for your next session—to help move things along. It seems like a positive way to combat the boredom.”

Bullshit. He wants information on The Treatment. On Realm. But he’ll get none of that from me. “Maybe I can write to my parents,” I suggest, just to see Kell’s reaction. She smiles warmly.

“Well, that sounds wonderful,” she says sincerely. “I’m sure The Program has already told them that you’re here, but they’ll probably appreciate an update from you. You’ve given them quite a scare.”

Has The Program told my parents that they have me? It wouldn’t make much sense, not if they plan to lobotomize me. Looking at Nurse Kell, she seems honestly impressed that I’d want to write to my parents. I’m not sure she knows what happens to the people who leave this facility. I don’t think anyone does.

My parents. If  The Program hasn’t told them, where do they think I am now? Did my father tell my mother that James had called? Do they think he’s keeping me safe like he promised? If only they knew that The Program was planning to lobotomize me. Make me well-behaved. Is that how they want me?

I’m quiet as Nurse Kell finishes tidying up the room, saying she’ll be back in an hour for my plates. I don’t eat any more and instead find the paper and bendable pen she left for me to write with.

I move the dishes off the tray and set it up as a desk. But as I stare down at the paper, vast in white and blankness, I can think of nothing to write. Really, I think of James. And how likely it is that I’ll never see him again—at least not as myself.

Closing my eyes, I imagine what I’d write to him, not daring to put it on paper. I let myself think back on the good times, some of the bad. Our promises.

I love you, I write to James in my mind. In another life we could have stayed together, fought, gotten back together. Our existence wouldn’t have been anyone’s concern. Maybe I would have learned to swim. Maybe we would have had children.

James, we didn’t fail each other. You took The Treatment and now you’ll always remember me. My tears drip onto the blank paper. But I won’t remember you. I won’t remember how you make me laugh or make me furious with your stubbornness. James, I won’t remember you.

But I’ll always love you.

I lie on my side, and the paper falls from the bed, swaying in the air until it lands somewhere on the floor. I’ll never be able to tell James how I feel—not unless I find a way out of this. But each second that ticks by reminds me how little time I have left. No one’s coming for me. Except the surgeon.

CHAPTER FIVE

“TELL ME YOUR LAST MEMORY of the farmhouse, before the handlers came to collect you,” Dr. Beckett says. He’s back in his leather chair, and I’m in the seat across from him, my hands no longer bound. My head is heavy as the medication the doctor gave me to calm me down winds through my body, twisting and turning and setting me at ease.

“I was with James,” I say with a smile. “I had a dream about us, and I was telling him about it before we heard Dallas scream from downstairs. Then we ran through the woods.” I close my eyes and tell him about the chase. About Arthur getting Tased, and Dallas stabbing Roger. He listens intently, never interrupting. But when I’m done, he licks his lips as if he’s been waiting with a question.

“Where was Michael Realm during this exchange? Casanova was there, but Michael wasn’t at the farm. Do you know where he went?”

“Maybe he killed himself,” I say bitterly. As the words meet the silence of the room, I immediately regret them. I don’t want Realm dead. I want him to tell me the doctor is lying about all this. I want him to bring me to James.

“I’m fully confident that Michael is still alive,” the doctor says. “But don’t worry; you’ll get your justice once we find him. Now, when was the last time you saw him?”

“In the house. He and Cas got into an argument, and they took it outside. Then James and I went upstairs and . . .” I lift my eyes to Dr. Beckett, realizing I shouldn’t know that James is free. “How is James?” I ask, sounding concerned.

The doctor smiles. “He’s just fine, Sloane. He’s in a Program facility and being very cooperative from what I hear. You don’t have to worry about him anymore. You only have to worry about yourself.”

“Don’t hurt him.” Dr. Beckett is caught in his own lie and he doesn’t even know it. I blink rapidly as if holding back tears. “Please don’t hurt him.”

The doctor purses his lips like he’s having an attack of conscience.

“I’ll send word that you asked for him. Okay?”

I nod, pretending to be grateful. I ease back in the chair and focus on the last days at the farmhouse. My conversation with James about babies, details that can’t possibly help Beckett find anyone, let alone my boyfriend.

Beckett writes something down in his notes, and he’s visibly agitated. I’m reminded that I have only about six days until I’ll be lobotomized, unless I buy more time. That’s what Asa told me. “Maybe . . .,” I start, not sure what I’m going to say next but knowing I have to do something. “Maybe I’m forgetting a clue,” I say. “To where Realm is. He might have told me something, but I can’t remember.”

The doctor glances up, removing his glasses and setting them on the desk. “There are medications that can help make the memories more vivid,” he says. “We can try them next time.” He’s distrustful, and I guess he’s wondering the real reason to why I’m suddenly such a model patient. I’m quick to offer a cover.

“If you find him,” I say, sounding braver than I feel, “I want to talk to him before you do”—I wave my hand—“whatever it is you’re planning on doing to him. And then I want to go home.”

Dr. Beckett nods condescendingly. “Or course, sweetheart. You’ll still have to complete The Program, but after that you’ll be free to go.”

“Deal.”

The doctor doesn’t mention the lobotomy, not that I thought he would. But maybe part of me hoped he would just admit it. Then again, without the niceties, each day could dissolve into torture. I’ve seen Lacey, Arthur. I know what’s to come. Maybe it’s best to live in denial for as long as I can.

Dr. Beckett has me swallow a shiny red pill before leaving his office. I’m surprised when Asa isn’t waiting for me, but I’m already getting sleepy so I try to hurry down the hall. I pause on my way past the waiting room.

Lacey’s there, rocking gently as she stares out the window. She seems better—at least a little more with it—than she did the other times I saw her. Before walking in, I cast a glance around the hallway, and when the coast is Kell-free, I walk in.

“I like your hair,” I say as my lamest and most nonthreatening opening statement ever. Lacey looks up and flashes her teeth.

“Thanks.” She doesn’t ask me to sit, but her posture tells me she isn’t opposed to the idea. I don’t remember what Lacey was like before The Program, but I have to believe she was always a badass. I wonder if that side of her will eventually come out again.

I sit on the stiff couch cushion, facing her chair, and she turns slightly as if curious about what I’ll say next. I hadn’t really thought that far ahead. “I’m Sloane,” I say.

She smiles softly, her eyes wide as they glance over at me. In them I find no recognition, but they’re not dead. Not completely. I lean closer, checking again to make sure we’re not being watched.

“Your name is Lacey,” I whisper. “You’re Lacey Klamath and you’re from Oregon.”

Her smile fades, her brows pulling together as she fights to understand what I mean. She doesn’t know who she is—at all—but her personality is set. It’s not solely based on her memories. She’ll still be Lacey. Despite the panic that’s bubbling up at the thought of her never coming back, I’m trying to convince myself that she’s still Lacey.

“If I could get us out of here,” I say weakly, “would you come with me?”

Lacey’s eyes drift past me, and a hand grips my shoulder, nearly making me leap out of my skin. I turn and see Asa standing over me, his jaw set in anger.

“You must be tired, Miss Barstow,” he says coldly. “Let’s get you back to your room to rest.” He’s right; underneath this burst of adrenaline, my body is heavily medicated, ready to crash.

I glance at Lacey once more, but she’s turned away, back to rocking as she stares out the window.

I murmur a good-bye and then follow Asa. He escorts me out more like a punished child than a rebel trying to break out of a brainwashing facility. When we get into the hallway, Asa spins and I take a startled step back.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he demands in a hushed voice. He still smells of cigarettes, and his eyes have taken on dark circles. He’s worried about something.

“You’ll have to be more specific,” I say, and his glare chills me.

“Do you want to be lobotomized? I’m trying to save your life, Sloane. Asking Lacey questions about escape . . . God!” He balls his hand in a fist like he wants to punch something. He takes a step away and then comes back, clearly frustrated. “Look,” he says, “I need you to be smart. Dallas won’t listen and now she’s scheduled for surgery.”

“What? When?” They’re going to turn her into one of those people. They’re going to switch her off. “You have to stop them!”

“I can’t,” he says, coming close to my face. “She’s being taken to the surgeon tomorrow. I can’t compromise myself or I’ll end up just like her and Arthur Pritchard.”

“Then what do we do? I can’t let that happen. I have to save her.”

“Sloane,” he says, sounding desperate. “You have to save yourself. I can’t help her now, and neither can you. Just play the game. Realm is doing everything he can to get to you, I promise.”

Again Realm’s name gives me an odd mix of feelings that is quickly covered up by the medication. It washes over me, and in just a few seconds my mind is going fuzzy. Asa curses and then takes my elbow to lead me toward my room.

“It’s the red pill. It has a sedative that works while it erases your memories,” he says, continuingly checking behind us.

“What are they erasing?” I ask, although I can hear the slurring at the end of my sentence.

“I’m not sure. It depends what you told them.”

“They want to find Realm,” I say, just as Asa gets me into the room. “They want to know why he wasn’t at the farmhouse when they came to take us.”

Asa helps me into bed and then stares down. “And what did you tell them?”

“The truth.” My blinking slows, making Asa appear and disappear in longer intervals. “I told him I didn’t know.”

Asa smiles and then my eyes stay shut. “Good girl.”

I’m sitting in Dr. Beckett’s office, feeling more alone than ever. I can’t believe I actually agreed to take this pill—a pill that will attach to my memories, clarify them, and then target them for erasure. I never thought I could voluntarily do something like this, but right now it’s my only chance to buy more time. I have five days left, maybe four. Without another thought, I swallow the yellow pill and then close my eyes, waiting for the first wave.

Across from me, Dr. Beckett’s chair groans as he adjusts his position, settling in for a long session. There is a quick panic that my subconscious may really know where Realm is, but I push past the worry. I’ve already taken the pill—there’s no more hiding inside my head. Maybe part of me thinks he deserves to be caught.

Five minutes later my eyelids flutter open. I feel calm, but unlike the sedative, it’s not groggy. It’s alert, clear, and peaceful. I stare at Dr. Beckett for a minute before he notices I’m looking at him. He’s writing down notes in a pad, flipping between pages. He doesn’t have a wedding ring; he’s wearing a soft brown blazer with a T-shirt underneath—like something a hip TV star would wear to an awards show. Is he really that casual? Is this part of the image he wants to portray? He’s shaved today, and it makes him look younger. He must be in his forties, but he could pass for twenties without his beard. I think he’s a walking lie—a false image in his entirety.

He looks up. “Ah, I see the medication has kicked in.”

I nod and settle into the chair. It’s more comfortable than I remember, or maybe I’m just feeling really cooperative. “What are you writing?” I ask.

He smiles, seeming embarrassed to know I was watching him. “Decisions need to be made,” he says. “Some patients are beyond our help, Sloane. I’m the one who has to make the tough calls. I’m sorry to tell you”—he purses his lips and looks away—“Dallas isn’t going to make it. She’s being scheduled for surgery.”

I swallow hard, a mix of anger and grief exploding inside of my chest before it’s washed away. “What will happen to her? This is cruel, even for The Program.”

“I assure you, it isn’t as terrible as you think—not for someone like her. We’ve perfected our techniques for a lobotomy. It’s not like it was back when they were first popular. Lobotomies were for the criminally insane. They were never meant to cure patients—only to make them easier to manage. Here we have a purpose. Dallas’s frontal lobe will be disconnected from the nerves that are sending her infected signals.” He folds his hands in front of him in a practiced doctorly move. “We will insert a metal rod behind her eye and sever the nerves. When it’s done, Dallas will have no physical scars, but she’ll no longer want to kill herself.”

“She won’t be able to think either,” I snap.

“Not true. We’re not cutting out pieces of her brain; we’re rerouting the wires. The result is a calmer, less violent person. She won’t remember any of the horrible stuff she’s been through. Her long-term memory will be gone. She’ll undergo extensive physical and speech therapy, and in three to six months, Dallas will be ready to experience life again.”

“Is that what will happen to me?” I ask, my voice weak.

“It depends on if you can help us, Sloane. Tell me, where is Michael Realm?”

His mouth is lying, while his eyes give me everything I need to know. There is no other therapy in this facility. I will end up just like the others.

“I don’t know where Realm is,” I say.

“What was the last thing he said to you?” he asks. “What was your last conversation about?”

The memory is being sought out, and unable to lie with the medication slipping through my veins, I answer. “We were on a bridge the day before the handlers came. Realm said he understood about me and James—that I’d always pick James over him. He promised that no matter what . . . he’d always choose me. But I didn’t want that.”

Dr. Beckett nods. “Do you expect to see Michael again?” he asks.

I swallow hard, trying to hold the words back, but I can’t. “Yes. I expect him to rescue me.”

Beckett actually laughs. “That so? I assure you, that isn’t actually possible. But the fact that you believe it . . . That speaks volumes. Sloane, do you love Michael Realm?”

“Right now, I hate him.”

“But overall, despite how he’s lied and betrayed you . . . do you love Michael Realm?”

There’s the sting of tears in my eyes, a slight quiver to my bottom lip. “Yes,” I whisper. “Yes, I do.”

“Then we won’t have to find him,” the doctor says, closing the file. “He’ll come for you. And we’ll be waiting.”

CHAPTER SIX

WHEN I WAKE UP THE next morning, I have a medication hangover. I don’t wait for it to wear off before I’m out of bed, pulling on a pair of clean scrubs. On the side table is a breakfast tray, but there’s no time to eat. They’re lobotomizing Dallas today. I have to find her—save her—before they do. I walk quickly down the hall, the room tilting in my mind and sending me into the wall several times as I try to adjust my balance. I have to remember the way to solitary, but the world is hazy.

“Sloane?” I turn and see Asa coming down the adjacent hall. “What are you doing out of your room?”

“I need to get to Dallas,” I say. “You have to help me save her.”

Asa shoots an alarmed look around the empty hall before jogging over to grab my arm, turning and leading me back toward my room. I try to pull away, but he tightens his grip.

“Let me go,” I call out, but he only quickens his pace. “You’re hurting me.” When we get to my room, he slingshots me inside, making me stumble against the bed. He checks the hall once more before closing the door.

“Have you lost your mind?” he shouts, and then glances behind him at the door. Drawing the attention of the nurses or other handlers is the last thing Asa wants, and I test him by trying for the door again. He grabs me, pulling me to his side. He doesn’t look down at me, only tips his head in my direction while he stares straight ahead.

“If you do this, Sloane, they will end you. There is no way out of solitary without Dr. Beckett’s approval.” His hazel eyes find mine. “And I’m guessing you don’t have that.”

“I can’t let them lobotomize her. You have to help me, Asa.”

There’s a weakening in his posture, but he only shrugs. “I can’t,” he whispers. “Even if I wanted to, I can’t. Not without compromising myself.”

“Then what?” I ask. “What am I supposed to do? After Dallas, then it’ll be me. Will you wait then, too?”

“No, I made Realm a promise.”

“Why?” I ask, throwing up my hands. “What do you owe him that could be worth this much?”

Asa darts his gaze away, his cheeks growing flushed. “Michael Realm saved my life once, and I owe him.”

“Maybe he was lying to you, too.”

Asa smiles at this, turning to me. “He was. He definitely was, but that doesn’t mean I’m not grateful. I would have killed myself—I sure as hell wanted to. Realm was my only friend. Real or not, he saved me. And this is how I’m paying him back. He loves you, Sloane. For all his flaws, he loves you.”

“Too bad I don’t feel the same,” I respond. “Be sure to tell him that.”

Asa flinches when his phone vibrates. He pulls it out to check a message and then takes a step backward. “I have to go,” he says. “But I need you to stay away from Dallas. You have four days—you can’t let them take you to the surgeon before then. Do you understand me?”

“Like I can stop it.”

“Do what you can,” he offers. He slips out the door, but not before I noticed the way his skin paled, his muscles tensed. Despite Asa’s warning, I can’t let it go. I can’t just leave Dallas helpless for them to stick a metal rod behind her eye and sever her life. There has to be something I can do.

My breathing is jagged and adrenaline starts to pulsate as a frantic thought takes over. Maybe I can fight our way out.

I scan the room, looking for anything I can use as a weapon. All I see are covered plates of food and the plastic spoon that sits on the side of the breakfast tray. I wish Nurse Kell would have left her knitting needles or something sharp. I’ll need a key card to get into solitary, and it’s obvious Asa isn’t just going to hand over his.

The minutes tick by, and all I can think about is Dallas, whose life is about to be irrevocably changed. No one else will help her. I’m the only person who can save her. I walk over to clear off the tray of food and then pick up the flat metal pan. I’m going to have to take a key.

I crack open my door and peer out, hoping to find a nurse heading in this direction—but the hall is empty. The tray is cold in my hand and my heart is pumping blood loudly into my ears. I’ll have to hurt someone, and even though I’m mad as hell, I still don’t want to do that. But what choice have they left me? I’ll get to Dallas, get her out of solitary, and then we make a break for it. My entire future depends on luck, on not getting caught.

I blow out a steadying breath, wondering if I’ve completely lost my mind at this point. Then I lean forward and whistle loudly. When I hear nothing in return, I do it again, and then there is the shuffling of feet. I curse, suddenly debating this idea, but close my door and hide behind it. The footsteps get louder, and I lift the metal tray above my head, readying the force I’ll need to bring it down on whoever walks in the door.

The world is moving in slow motion as I watch the handle turn, the twitch in my arm, the shake of my breath. And then there is a side profile, followed by the back of a head with short red hair. I bring the tray down with as much force as I can. The metal connects against the hard skull with a heavy clang, sending vibrations up my arm. I see the bend of the metal and lift the tray to drive it down again, but the body falls to the floor in front of me.

It’s Nurse Kell. I lower my arms and let them hang lifelessly, guiltily, at my sides. For a terrible moment I think she’s dead, but then I hear a gurgle, a soft moan. I have only a moment. I have to get to Dallas.

I lean down and grab Nurse Kell’s key card from her hip, and then, still carrying the tray, I rush from the room. I book down the hallway, my head whipping from side to side as I search for the right set of double doors. I expect an alarm to sound, flooding the hall with handlers, but nothing happens. Not yet.

The nurses’ station is just ahead, and I stop and press myself to the wall, just out of their view. I’m not sure how to get past them, not carrying a metal tray and looking crazy. I set my weapon down on the white floor and then start forward. Therapy. I could be going to therapy.

A young, dark-haired nurse glances up as I pass. I nod to him, and he goes back to his computer as I take the turn just before the doctors’ wing. Once in the new hallway, I recognize the door at the end and start running again. This is where Asa took me when I visited Dallas. I’m not sure if she’s still there, but I’m about to find out.

After a quick check around me, I use Nurse Kell’s key card and cautiously walk inside, seeing a series of rooms. I can’t remember which is Dallas’s, but she must be the only person down here because all the doors are open but one. I swallow hard, scared she won’t actually be inside—that maybe I’m too late. I swipe the key card and then push the door open, my stomach in knots.

The room is awash in muted colors, and it takes me a long moment to find the figure inside wearing gray scrubs. Just at that moment, Dallas lifts her head, her eyes widening when she sees me. “Sloane?” she calls in a weak voice.

“Oh, thank God,” I say, and move quickly to grab her. Dallas has dark circles that have changed the shape of her eyelids, drawing them down. She’s been here only for a few days, but she looks sickly and even thinner than before. I think the isolation has been wearing on her.

“We have to get out of here,” I say. “They’re going to lobotomize you.”

I help her up, and Dallas staggers beside me, wobbly like it’s been too long since she’s walked. “What?” she asks, looking over. “Lobotomy?” She uses the word like she’s never heard it before. I’m not sure what sort of psychosis she’s in, but I have to get us out of here.

“We’re escaping,” I tell her. “And if we fail, they’re going to lobotomize both of us. They’ve already done it to Lacey, and we’re next. Now move your ass!” I push her ahead toward the doors, checking behind us and sticking close to the wall. I’m waiting for an overhead alarm, flashing lights, but it’s still quiet. There’s terrible guilt as I wonder if anyone has found Nurse Kell yet.

When we get to the double doors, I pause, my hand against the frame. “Dallas,” I say, drawing a half-glazed stare from her. “We have to run for the stairs, do you understand? Don’t stop, not for anyone. Not even for me.”

It takes a second, but I see the life start to return to Dallas’s eyes. Suddenly she reaches out to hug me, a quick squeeze before pulling back and nodding toward the door. I swipe the card, and then we’re walking, heading for the staircase, which is on the other side of the nurses’ station.

But we don’t make it. I’m not sure how many steps I take before I feel the sting, the surge, the overwhelming cramp that overtakes my body. The world freezes up and locks, and I’m crumbling, falling in a heap on the floor. My body quivers, tears leak from my eyes, and drool slips from my mouth. My eyes roll back in my head, and when I can finally focus again, I see the white coat of a handler, a Taser in his hand.

Suddenly someone else is there, grabbing me by the shoulders to drag me down the hall, placing me in the open before flipping me onto my back. I see Asa, staring down at me with a cold stare, not disappointed or angry, just empty. In the distance I hear Dallas screaming, calling for me. But I can’t help her now.

“I’m getting a wheelchair,” Asa begins, “and then I’m taking you to solitary.” He looks down the hall, waiting for someone. I want to ask him about Kell, but I’m still shaking too much to talk, my jaw locked as my muscles continue to spasm.

The chair arrives, and Asa and another handler lift me and set me down. I’m slumped to the side, but no one offers any help or asks if I’m okay. I think they’re going to kill me this time. I’ve finally crossed too many lines. I’m expecting to be driven to Dr. Beckett, but instead they turn and I’m going back where I came from. They drag me over to drop me on the bed in a room next to Dallas’s. The handlers fasten me down and leave, Asa not even turning back to look at me.

There’s a tapping noise, something faint at first, but the more awake I get, the louder it becomes. I open my eyes, at first startled by the unfamiliar room, until I remind myself that I’m in a Program hospital. I’m waiting to be lobotomized. The tapping stops. I turn to my right, and at first I’m too stunned to react.

“Hello, Sloane,” Roger says. “I think we need to have a little chat.”

I open my mouth to scream, but Roger is across the room in a heartbeat, his hand over my mouth. “Now, now,” he says. “Don’t make me cut your throat.”

I continue fighting anyway, thrashing my head from side to side. Roger takes a step back, wincing and cupping his side where Dallas stabbed him. The minute his palm slips from my mouth and my first scream breaks through the room, his grip on my neck promptly cuts them off. I choke, my eyes widening as air is strangled out of me.

“Let’s try this again,” he growls as my chest starts to burn. I try to gasp, but I can’t get any air in or out. “I’m going to kill your friend,” he says, “but first I need to locate him. Where is Michael Realm?”

I don’t know, I mouth, struggling against my restraints, but it’s no use. Roger’s weight is too heavy, his strength far outweighing mine. It feels like he’s crushing my bones. He’s going to kill me.

“Here’s the thing, Sloane,” Roger says conversationally, even as small black dots are starting to appear in the corners of my vision. I’m about to pass out. “Realm has something that belongs to me. I’m willing to trade for it, but first I need to find him. Now, you’ll help me, or I’ll destroy Dallas.” Roger lowers his face until it’s just over mine. I try again to take a breath, and fail. Roger smiles sweetly. “I will break her, Sloane. She’ll wish she were dead.”

His threat is enough to send me renewed energy, and I use what little strength I have left to bring up my knee as hard as I can. It strikes his thigh, knocking him off balance and sending him sideways. I start to scream, but my voice is raw, ripping at my throat as I beg for help. I choke on the air I try to take into my lungs. I watch helplessly as Roger staggers to his feet, holding his chest. He must still be healing from where he was stabbed, and I have a wild hope that his wounds will reopen and he’ll bleed to death.

“I will find him,” Roger says, pointing at me as he moves for the door. “Michael Realm is dead, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

“Help!” I try to yell, but it comes out only as a whisper before another coughing fit starts. Roger is out the door, and I’m crying, rolling from side to side to somehow free my bonds, tearing the flesh on my barely healed wrists. “Help!” I call again, worried that he crushed my windpipe and I’ll never get my voice back.

There’s the sound of footsteps, and I lift my head. The door flies open, and Asa looks in. The minute he sees me, he grabs his radio and calls in a code. I try to tell him about Roger: He’s going to kill Realm, do something horrible to Dallas, but he’s shushing me, working frantically to undo my restraints.

More people arrive, but they never let me talk. I’m strapped to a gurney, white coats whizzing by me as I continue to struggle for breath. I’m watching for Roger’s face, but he’s gone. Like a phantom who came to haunt me, he’s disappeared, making me wonder if he was really there at all. But at the end of the hall, just before they push me down the medical wing for X-rays, I hear one of the nurses say, “Oh my God. What happened to her neck?”

And I knew Roger had really been here after all.

I’m momentarily untied, surrounded by handlers in an infirmary while we wait for Dr. Beckett. “It was Roger,” I rasp to Asa as my throat continues to ache. He nods, his shoulders rigid and his posture alert.

“Yeah, I saw him run past me. I thought he’d come from Dallas’s room, but then I heard you calling.” His eyes lower, heavy with guilt, and I reach to put my hand on his forearm. The minute I do, he flinches away as if I’ve burned him. I broke his trust by going after Dallas. I don’t think he’ll help me again.

The doctor walks into the room, and Asa moves quickly to pull him aside before he can talk to me. I watch, anxious to tell Dr. Beckett exactly what happened so he can stop Roger from hurting Dallas or from finding Realm.

The doctor takes out his phone and begins talking; shooting concerned looks in my direction. Is he calling Roger? Would The Program get the police involved? After a moment Dr. Beckett hangs up, walking past Asa to stop in front of me. Absently, I touch my neck.

His smile is apologetic but warm. “Leave us for moment,” he tells the other handlers, glancing back at them once. They exchange looks but then leave—including Asa. Soon it’s just me and the good doctor, alone in a tiny white room. I’m starting to panic—afraid the doctor will try to hurt me like Roger did. I’m vulnerable. I’m scared.

“I must admit . . .,” the doctor begins, “I came here expecting Michael Realm. I’m disappointed he hasn’t come for you. I guess he doesn’t love you after all.”

His barb hurts, but I move past it, focusing on what really matters. “You can’t let Roger get away with this,” I say after an extended silence. My voice is strangled and weak. “He’s a psychopath and he’s going to kill Dallas and Realm. I know he’s part of the boys’ club here, but even you must have limits.”

“Measures are being taken.”

I laugh but then grip my damaged neck to alleviate the burn. The doctors are the ones who are crazy. Not us. Not the patients. “He’s going to get away with it,” I say. “Just like last time.” I look him directly in the eyes. “He was blackmailing patients to have sex with him in exchange for memories.”

Beckett’s expression falters. “Are these rumors? How do you know this?”

“I was a patient, remember?” I pause. “I was a victim.”

“You retained memories?”

“Are you not getting the point? He’s raping underage girls, Beckett. Who gives a shit if he lets them keep one inconsequential memory? They’re losing so much more. And this should all be documented,” I add. “He was fired while I was a patient.”

Again Dr. Beckett looks perplexed. I can’t believe this.

“Dr. Warren knew all about it,” I say. “Realm broke his arm, they fired Roger and escorted him out. Why did The Program hire him back?”

“We didn’t. Roger no longer works for The Program—not on a public level. And neither does Dr. Warren for that matter. Her position was terminated after you went rogue.” Beckett exhales, looking weary. “Sloane, we’re going to have to talk about Nurse Kell.”

Guilt attacks my conscience. “Is she okay?”

Dr. Beckett tilts his head from side to side. “She’s not great, that’s for sure. She needed several staples to close the wound in her head. Is that how you repay someone who’s been trying to help you? Do you still think you’re not sick?”

“I didn’t want to hurt her,” I say, ashamed. “I just wanted to see Dallas. I was worried about her. What you’re doing is wrong. You can’t just turn us into zombies.”

Dr. Beckett scoffs. “Hardly, Sloane. You’ve seen Lacey—the patients are all perfectly well. Just . . . less violent. Less suicidal. Can you really not see that?”

I’ll never make him understand. I think he believes this bullshit. “Leave me alone then,” I say. “I don’t know where Realm is, and even if I did, I would never tell you. He may have betrayed me, but at least he’s not a delusional prick.”

Dr. Beckett doesn’t move at first, but then a wide Cheshire-like grin spreads over his face. “Poor girl,” he starts in a sympathetic voice, “you really are a lost soul.”

He reaches down and brushes his fingers over my cheek gently. “Sleep well, Sloane,” he murmurs. “I’ll do what I can to help Dallas.” On cue, the door opens and two handlers come in, talking in hushed voices. Dr. Beckett gives me one last look, his expression a bit doubtful, but concerned nonetheless.

“Sweep the area, and call outside and have them search the grounds,” he tells the handlers. “And keep extra security outside of solitary until the surgeon calls down tomorrow.” The handlers, like mindless drones, leave with their mission.

“So that’s it?” I call to Beckett’s back as he starts to leave. “You’re just going to sever our memories and pretend like we never existed?”

“Believe me, Sloane,” he says, “I wish that’s all there was to it. You can’t imagine the PR nightmare you and your boyfriend have created for us. But we’ll get through it. The Program will survive. Because teens will keep trying to kill themselves, and we’ll keep saving them. It’s the new order of things. I’m just glad I’m on the right side of the battle.”

“You’re not.”

“Yeah, well, what do you know?” he says, annoyance cracking through his otherwise cool exterior. “You’re depressed. Delusional. Your opinion means shit here.” He pauses, visibly collecting himself. “I’ll see you on the other side, Sloane. I think you’ll be a lot more likeable then.” And with that, Dr. Beckett leaves me locked in a padded cell, while he goes back to tend to The Program.

CHAPTER SEVEN

“JAMES,” I WHISPER INTO THE air above my bed, wishing his name could conjure him up. Instead I can only imagine his face, his eyes so blue, the sound of his voice. James isn’t really here. He never will be. I’m alone in a room, hands at my side in the most claustrophobic position in the world.

As I sit in silence, I feel my sanity wavering. I’m not sure how much time has passed since I attacked Nurse Kell—a few hours? A day? There’s no way to tell. No windows. No anything. Another female nurse has come in twice to help me use the restroom. Last time she was here, she dressed me in scratchy gray scrubs, but she didn’t speak to me. In fact, I could feel that she hated me. I wonder if she was friends with Kell. Once, I almost asked about my old nurse, but then thought better of it. I don’t have the right to ask. I’m the lunatic who hurt her.

Now I’m tied down to a bed, calling out the name of my boyfriend, actually waiting for an answer. Time ticks by, and then, from beyond the door I hear sounds . . . heavy footsteps, not the quiet brushing steps of the nurse. Then more noise, multiple people. My pulse quickens and I smile. They came for me. James and Realm have finally come back for me.

I strain my neck, lifting my head off the bed to watch the door. I’m going to get out of here. Thoughts spin in my head, erratic and smashing into each other. I don’t try to clear them. Instead I start screaming.

“I’m in here!” I yell to them. “James!” I cough, my throat still sore from Roger’s attack, but I don’t care. I don’t want them to walk past. I hear the swipe of a card, the beep of the door. I’m almost free.

The door swings open, and it takes me a moment to process. It’s not James, or even Realm. It’s a guy in a white coat, comb-smoothed light hair. Behind him are two other guys, near copies of each other. The smile falls from my face. The butterflies in my stomach catch fire and turn to ash, filling me with despair.

“No,” I say, shaking my head slowly. “No.”

The handler betrays little emotion as he comes inside the room. He begins to unfasten the restraints, his touch firm but not painful. “We’re going on a trip, Miss Barstow,” he says, as if I’m unable to understand his words. “I’ll help you up, and then you just have to walk with us, okay?”

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“There’s a doctor they want you to meet.”

I let the guy help me up, glad to be on my feet again. The back of my hair is a tangle of knots, and I run my hand over it self-consciously as we exit the room. I’m not going to see Dr. Beckett—I’m going to the surgeon. They’re going to lobotomize me.

One of the handlers stays behind, guarding what must be Dallas’s room. Nothing around me seems real, not the walls or the white coats. Not the smell of soap or the ache in my wrists. I’m walking through a nightmare that I’ll never wake up from. Will this me—the me I am now—be trapped in a padded cell while the new Sloane takes over? I’ll be waiting for James forever. A tear trickles down my cheek, and I hitch in a breath, my dry lips cracking as I begin to whimper. The fear is so completely overwhelming, so entirely encompassing, that I let myself slip back into a memory—I retreat to a safe place. A final place. I think of James.

“Sloane,” James says, his lips curved in a grin. “I think you should learn to swim.”

“Uh-huh.” I adjust the sound on the car radio, and James playfully slaps my hand away.

“I’m not kidding,” he says. “What if we had to swim for our lives?”

I turn and laugh. “What, like, from sharks?”

“You never know.”

“No, I’m pretty sure I’ll never have to swim from sharks. I’m fine with not swimming, James. I’m pretty good at skipping rocks. I’ll have to show you sometime.”

“I hate that you’re scared,” he says, his smile fading as his voice becomes more serious. We’re on our way to meet Lacey and Kevin, on our way to join rebels. Every moment of normalcy we have has an undercurrent of  fear. I don’t think it’ll ever go away again.

“I don’t want you to be scared of anything,” James says. “I want you to fight. Fight for everything, always. Otherwise they win.”

I swallow hard, the unspoken “they” being The Program. “I fought for you,” I murmur.

James lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “Yeah, well. Now I want you to learn to swim.”

“Never.”

James turns on the windshield wipers as a soft rain begins to patter the glass. He shakes his head as if I’m the biggest pain in the ass he’s ever known. “One day,” he says, “I’ll find a way to convince you to listen to me.”

I open my eyes, the hallway stretched endlessly. The stark white walls begin to fade away—the color deepening to a dusty gray the closer I get to the surgeon’s room. I’ll never swim with James. He was right; I was too scared—always too scared. I turn from side to side, looking up at the handlers as they continue to usher me forward, moving me closer to the end of life as I know it.

I can’t be scared anymore. I have to swim.

“You realize what you’re doing, right?” I ask one of the handlers. “I’m not even sick. They’re doing this to keep me quiet.”

Neither of them looks at me, although I see the handler on my right squint slightly. I wish Asa was here; I wish he’d help me. But instead I have these two strangers with whom I’ll have my last conversation before I meet the doctor. I yank my arms back, but they hold me fast.

“Keep moving,” one says gently, as if I really am crazy.

“I can’t believe you let yourself be part of this,” I hiss at him. “I can’t believe you let them destroy people. What if I was your friend? Your sister? What if I was you?”

The handler turns, his lip curled up with some sort of ready response, but I seize the moment. I throw all my weight into my shoulder and slam into him, knocking him off balance while freeing my arm from the other handler. My socks slip on the floor, but it gives me an advantage as I drop lower, missing the swinging arm of the handler trying to catch me.

I take off, sliding until I get enough traction, and then I’m through the doors leading out into the main hallway. The handlers are yelling, both to me and into their walkie-talkies. I’ll never get out like this, but I refuse to let them walk me to my death. If they’re going to take me, they’re going to take me kicking and screaming. I won’t make it easy for them.

The walls are white again and I’m running as fast as my legs will carry me. I’m not sure how far behind me they are, and I don’t turn to look, afraid it will slow me down. I expect the shock of the Taser at any second, but I keep going. I’ll never stop.

I take the final turn and see the backs of several security guards. The air catches in my throat, my stomach sinking to the floor. It’s over. I’m about to scream, fight to the death, but they don’t turn to me, and then suddenly the handlers behind me stop yelling. They listen to their handsets, glancing from me to the scene up ahead. I’m confused, my adrenaline pulsing through my veins until I hear the other voices. I realize security isn’t concerned about me or the calls from my handlers because they’re talking to someone, or rather, actively trying to keep someone out of the hall.

I continue in that direction, knowing I’m walking straight into the arms of security, but hoping it’s my salvation somehow. I cast glances back at the handlers, who have paused, looking torn about what to do. One of the security guards raises his voice, repeating that he has no comment. Oh my God.

I start to jog, craning my neck around the broad-shouldered men. Another voice shouts that he will not be censored, and I recognize him. I stop next to the stairwell door, flooded with relief, overwhelming relief.

A guard steps toward him, and he comes into focus. Kellan—his dark hair, his eager eyes. “Kellan?” I say, not loud enough for him to actually hear me because my voice is still hoarse, because I’m already crying. I’m saved. The reporter won’t let me get lobotomized.

Behind Kellan there’s a cameraman filming the entire exchange, even though one of the security guards keeps pushing his lens, knocking it aside. I get on my tiptoes, lifting up my tired arms to wave them and get the reporter’s attention, when the door next to me opens with a loud click. Before I even have time to see who it is, a hand darts out and grabs my elbow, pulling me into the stairwell. The door slams shut behind me.

CHAPTER EIGHT

“HOLY CHRIST, SLOANE,” JAMES SAYS, pulling me behind him before he jams a tire iron in the metal bar of the door, securing it closed. Without another word he gathers me into a hug, pressing his lips to my forehead as we stand in the cold concrete stairwell.

I can’t even hug him back. My hands are shaky as I lift them, slowly, to touch the sleeve of his shirt and then his arm—his warm skin. I look up and study his blue eyes, his shaggy blond hair, the blond beard on his jaw. He’s the James from my memories. Is he just a memory?

“Are you real?” I ask, my voice wavering. I half-think I’ve slipped into a delusion, that I got the lobotomy and this is the resulting psychosis. But then my fingers touch the scars on James’s bicep and I know it’s him. I moan and fall into him again.

“I’m here,” James whispers, holding me so tightly, so securely. “I’m here, Sloane. I told you I’d come for you. Now”—he leans back to see me—“we have to get out of here. Your reporter friend is running a distraction, but we have to get out now. Can you run?”

I nod, wiping my face, but unable to let go of James’s arm. I’m afraid he’ll slip away, and then someone will grab me and drag me back into the white hallway. And I can’t go back. I just can’t.

“What about Dallas?” I ask. “They have her and—”

“I’ve already sent for her,” a voice says from the landing below. I look down the stairs and see Realm standing there, wearing a white jacket, his hair combed smooth. The image of it makes me so sick to my stomach that I think I might throw up. Realm as a handler. Realm as who he is.

“Once you’re out safely, Asa is going to bring Dallas down,” he says. “He gave me his keycard, and in the madness of everything, we were able to slip in unnoticed. It was a brilliant plan, if I do say so myself.” He smiles a little, but I don’t return it.

I drop James’s hand and start down the stairs, my body trembling, my face hot like it’s on fire. Realm’s expression brightens the closer I get to him. When I pause on the landing, I look him over. His scar is still jagged on his neck, just above the collar of the white jacket. His skin doesn’t look quite as pale and the circles aren’t as noticeable. I’m not sure if it’s makeup or just that handler-white suits him.

I slap him hard across the face. Tears spill onto my cheeks and my palm stings. Realm keeps his face turned for a long second, and then he slowly straightens, his eyes watering.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, knowing. I lean closer.

“I don’t forgive you,” I growl. There’s a touch on my arm, startling me, and I turn to see James.

“We have to go,” he says gently, glancing at Realm sympathetically. Does James know Realm is a handler? Would he have let him come here if he did?

James’s fingers slide down to take my hand again, and he nods like he’s asking me to trust him. I do. He tugs me forward, past Realm, although I’m not done with him. Not yet. We trample down the stairs, Realm lagging behind. Just as we get to the exit door, we hear the stairwell door shake, clanging against the tire iron. They’re coming. James squeezes my hand just before we explode out of the door, and blazing sunlight temporarily blinds me. Pebbles on the pavement are cutting into the slipper socks, but I keep going, even though I have no idea where James is leading me. An alarm sounds from the building and my fear spikes. We’ll never get away. They’ll never let us.

“Over there,” Realm calls from directly behind me, pointing past my shoulder to the left. He could pass me—he’s faster—but he’s trying to protect me. On the side of the building is a small alleyway where the front of a white van is sticking out. I hear the slam of bodies against the metal door; the handlers are nearly outside. My lungs burn as I run, knowing that I’m running for my life.

There’s a parking lot half-filled with cars, but we’re heading for the alley. Just then I see the flash of a white coat next to the van and my entire body tenses up, making me a stumble a step before James rights me. The handler is pushing a wheelchair, stopping to slide open the back door of the van. A cry bursts from my lips because I’d recognize that blond hair anywhere. I watch as Asa loads Dallas into the back of the van, her body limp and uncooperative as if she’s heavily drugged. In the distance I hear the start of sirens, and I know I don’t want to stick around for the police to arrive.

Even though The Program is wrong, I’m not taking the chance the authorities won’t believe me. In the chaos, I could end up back inside the facility while they sort things out. I’m not so naive as to think The Program wouldn’t do everything possible to keep me quiet.

“You have to run faster, Sloane,” James says, gasping, looking once behind us and then renewing his speed, practically ripping me off my feet. The handlers must be closing in, and it’s as if I can feel them breathing down my neck. Dallas once said it was impossible to break someone out of The Program—they’ve tried. James told her she must be doing it wrong. I sure as hell hope he’s figured out the right way.

We round the corner and Asa is already in the front seat, the engine running. He tears off his white jacket, pulling on his seat belt and revving the engine. The back is still open, and we’re so close to being free I’m sure we’ll make it. We have to make it.

I hear the gear shift and for a wild second I think the van is going to leave us behind, but I feel someone take hold of the back of my shirt and launch me forward. I’m completely off balance as I stumble, slamming gut-first into the running board of the van. There’s a commotion all around me, a flurry of grabbing hands making it impossible to tell what’s happening. And then I’m moving. Gravity rolls me inside the van and the door slams shut, locking me inside.

Realm collapses next to me, and we’re shoulder to shoulder. The van tires squeal, spinning out as we fishtail and shoot forward. My lungs burn and my side aches. I may be injured internally, but my adrenaline is rushing too hard for me to properly analyze my condition.

“Thanks, man,” James says, his cheeks flushed and his hair matted down with sweat. I turn and see he’s looking at Realm. Realm gasps for breath next to me but lifts his hand in a halfhearted salute. Realm is the one who pushed me into the van. I turn away from him, unable to look at his face—even though he just saved my life.

“Sloane?”

I smile, recognizing the voice, and I force myself up, groaning at the severe pain in my side. I push Realm’s hand away when he tries to help me. Dallas is in the back, a seat belt across the chest of her gray scrubs. She’s not wearing a patch, and I can’t contain my relieved laughter. She hasn’t been lobotomized.

I want to get to my feet and hug her, but the van is racing forward at a breakneck speed and I can’t get my bearings. James has moved to the passenger seat, talking with Asa and giving him directions. The handler, my friend, is now a fugitive, and I can tell by the lack of color in his cheeks that he knows that.

There’s another sharp pain in my side, and I lift the corner of my gray scrubs to check for an injury. There’s a dark purple fist-size bruise with dark magenta in the middle. I swallow hard and quickly cover it, trying to remember which vital organs are on my right side.

“Realm, help her onto the seat,” James calls from the front, drawing my gaze. When he sees my expression, he furrows his brow. “You okay?” He checks with Asa before coming to gather me from the floor, using the seat to hold him up. I don’t answer and let James move me, biting down hard on my lip to keep from screaming at the pain of being jostled. Realm skirts around us, taking James’s spot in the front.

I’m folding in on myself and slide in next to Dallas. James is concerned, but he’s also checking out the window to look for cops—or worse, handlers. I catch the reflection in Asa’s driver’s-side mirror and immediately freak.

“They’re following us!” There’s a black car close behind, racing through the traffic. When we turn, it turns with us. Overwhelming fear bubbles up.

James quickly follows my gaze to the black car behind us and then takes my hands to calm me. “It’s Kellan,” he says. “It’s okay. It’s just Kellan.” I meet James’s eyes, surprised. Certainly confused. “I had his business card,” James adds. “He helped us break you out.”

I check the car again, but the windows are too tinted for me to see the driver. There’s so much happening, I’m not sure what to ask first. I rest my head against James’s chest, happy to have him back, happier to be free. I can’t help but wonder for how long, though.

“Where are we going?” I ask, wrapping my arms around James, sighing after his hand brushes along my hair. I tense when Realm is the one who answers.

“We’re going to Oregon,” he says quietly. I force myself up, glaring toward the front. Is he crazy?

“They’ll be waiting for us there. I can’t just show up at my front door. My parents turned me in to The Program!”

“It’s our only choice.”

“Oh, now I’m supposed to trust you? You’re a handler—you’ve always been a handler. You let them take me!” Tears threaten to spill, betrayal attacking me all over again. Even if I forgave everything Realm did before, he didn’t get us out of that farmhouse. He found us for The Program—and he disappeared when I needed him most.

Realm lowers his head, not daring to look back at me. “I didn’t let them take you. I just didn’t have the power to stop it. Cas told me about his deal, but all of us would have been screwed if I didn’t leave when I did. I got James.” He turns to me, his jaw set hard. “I got him for you, so yes, you should trust me.”

James pulls me closer, murmuring that Realm is right. But it’s not enough for me. I’m angrier than I thought possible—about Realm being a handler, about the farmhouse. . . . But that’s not all. There’s a touch of a memory in the back of my head, and I turn to Dallas, sure it has to do with her. But nothing surfaces. I look back at Realm. They erased it. The Program erased part of the reason why I’m angry with him; I can feel it. What more could he have possibly done? I refuse to forgive him for crimes I can’t even remember—I’m not that kind.

“So we go back to Oregon,” I say, agitated that The Program got to any of my memories at all. “And then what? How long before they come for us again?”

Asa glances at Realm, obviously having the same concerns. I realize how shitty this must be for him. Whatever debt he had to Realm is paid off, but now his life is ruined. He’s on the run with a group of half-crazed rebels.

“I don’t know,” Realm says solemnly. “But you’re not going home. We’re going to Oregon to meet someone—a friend. Probably the only one we have left.”

“Who?” At this point, I can’t imagine anyone would want to fight with us, not even for him.

Realm smiles sadly and turns to face front again. “We’re going to see Dr. Evelyn Valentine.”

CHAPTER NINE

THE FARMHOUSES IN THE OREGON countryside still look the same, and nostalgia builds the closer we get to town. I’ve spent my life driving through these pastures, grown up hiking and camping with my family—my brother. Even though I can’t remember, I’ve spent them with James, too.

My eyelids are heavy as I battle against sleep, but my side is stiffening, pain radiating from the bruise. James is in the back of the van talking to Dallas, but her one-word responses do little to placate our fears. She’s unwell—severely unwell. There’s an unspoken agreement between all of us to keep watch over her. And to make sure she doesn’t leap from the moving van.

Realm has been talking on the phone with Kellan, but he’s not offering much information. The conversations sound grim though, all ending in “We’ll see.” I would have thought our faces would be all over the news and scanners, but The Program must be trying to cover this up. There’s not even an Amber Alert issued for us.

The seat shifts as James grabs the corner and climbs up to sit next to me. The movement renews my pain, and I grind my teeth to fight back a cry. I’m not quick enough to hide it, and James leans in close, turning my face to his.

“What’s wrong?” he asks seriously. He notices how I’m favoring my right side, and his eyes flip accusingly to mine. “You’re hurt?” Realm immediately turns from the front, and I know a spectacle is about to begin.

“I banged the side of the van pretty hard,” I say through dry lips. “I’m not going to lie, it fucking hurts. Asa,” I call to the front with a weak smile, “happen to have anything to fix that?”

My handler glances in the rearview mirror. “Some shots of Thorazine. You can expect to sleep if I hit you with one though.”

I shake my head. We may have to outrun the threat for right now, but if I fall asleep, I’ll be helpless. I can’t take the risk. I don’t think I’ll ever sleep again.

“Let him give you the shot,” James whispers, leaning in closer. He slides his palm gently over my bruise to check it, and I wince. “I can’t kiss the pain better.”

“I’m sorry I pushed you,” Realm says quietly. “I did this.”

I swallow hard, looking over at him. There’s a rush of affection, but I quickly squash it, refusing to let him in even a little bit. Because if I do, I don’t know how much of me he’ll take.

“Don’t be stupid,” James says to him, not unkindly. “You saved our lives. Now, Asa. Can you pass me back the needle?” I look pleadingly at James, but he shakes his head definitively. “I won’t let anything happen to you. I promise.”

We stare at each other, knowing he’s promised before. Maybe this is how we go on: making promises about things beyond our control to offer one more moment of hope. Hope—like Arthur Pritchard offered us, is sometimes enough to survive on.

So I nod, pushing up my shirtsleeve to give him access to my upper arm. Asa gives him the needle, and James looks all sorts of nervous as he takes off the cap and holds it up like he’s about to stab me. If my side didn’t hurt so badly, I’d laugh.

“Hold on,” Realm says, climbing back and snatching the needle out of James’s fist. “Jesus, you’re not trying to break through her breastplate.” Realm slides in between us, and this close to him I’m struck with grief. He’s taken off the handler’s jacket and is wearing a cotton T-shirt underneath instead. But his hair is still combed to the side, and I think he looks handsome. I hate him more for it.

“Here,” he says quietly, unable to meet my eyes this close. He runs his fingers over my muscles, warm and gentle, and then grips the underside to lift my arm. “Take a breath,” he whispers, too kindly. Tears well up, and I press my lips together to keep from crying. I don’t want him here—I don’t want the pain and regret. I don’t want to love him and hate him at the same time.

There’s a pinch and a deep burn as he injects me, and I cry out. But it’s not the needle hurting me, and Realm knows that. When he removes the tip, I cover my face and continue to cry—cry for all I’ve lost in the past few months. The ways I’ve been violated and betrayed. They were going to lobotomize me! Nothing will ever be right again. So I cry.

Realm gets up and James slides over, whispering I should let it out, as he helps me lie across his lap. I curl against him, my side still aching, and hiccup a few more whimpers. The Thorazine slowly works through me, coating me in contentment. This time I don’t fight against the calm.

“We’ll be at Evelyn’s in an hour, and Sloane can rest there,” Realm announces from the front, pausing before going on. “So long as the doctor lets us in.”

There’s the loud scrape of the metal door opening, and I’m startled awake. My side doesn’t hurt anymore—it feels stiff and full, and I imagine for a second that my midsection has hardened like petrified wood.

“Let’s get her to the back,” a woman’s voice says. The sound is raspy with a light German lilt. It must be Evelyn Valentine. Strong hands slide under me, lifting me from the seat, and my head falls against James’s chest. I’m trying to wake up, but I can keep my eyes open for only a few seconds at a time as I battle the Thorazine.

“Is she suicidal?” the doctor asks.

“No.” It’s Realm who answers from next to me. I blink my eyes open and see the wood shingles of a small cottage as we approach the entryway. There are vines crawling up the sides like the house is trying to stay hidden in nature. “She’s upset, though,” Realm adds. “We almost didn’t get to her in time. The other one, Dallas, she needs your help.”

The doctor sighs, mumbling something I don’t understand. I turn my head lazily to find her, but the scene is bouncing wildly as James carries me. It’s hard for me to catch my breath.

“Hello, dear.” Then she’s next to me: a tall, slender woman with glasses. She’s somewhere in her sixties with shaggy brown hair and a mole on the side of her nose. She smiles; her teeth are yellow and crowded, but her expression is genuine. I like her immediately.

“Don’t try to talk,” she says with an impatient wave of her hand. “You need to sleep off the drugs. I’m going to have a look at your side first, just to make sure you haven’t injured anything too badly.”

“Will she be okay?” James isn’t trying to be brave. He’s a wreck, and if I wasn’t the one being carried, I would want to hold him and tell him I’m fine, just so he wouldn’t have to be so scared.

“Oh, I think so,” the doctor says, and I feel her brush back my hair. My body shifts as James turns sideways to fit us through the doorway. We’re swallowed in darkness. The windows are covered, and from above us a light flicks on. “It looks like a nasty hematoma, but I’ll poke it a bit just to make sure.” She pats my arms to let me know she’s joking. “All right, put her in there.”

Cool sheets come up to meet me as James sets me on a small twin bed. I’m groggy, achy—but mostly I’m terrified to be alone with anyone but James. I grab his shirt to prevent him from leaving my side. He sits next to me on the bed, taking my hand and holding it to his lips.

“All but blondie out,” the doctor calls, shooing Realm and Asa from the room. “Now get that awful color off of her,” she says to James, and he begins to work my arms out of the gray scrubs. Evelyn kneels next to me, checking over my side before actually poking it and making me moan. She apologizes, but does it again in a few other areas. When she’s finished, she walks to the dresser and pulls out a bright pink T-shirt, handing it to James. “Help her into this this,” she says. “I can’t bear to put her back in gray.”

“Is she okay?” James asks, his voice strained.

“Contusion, bruising. She’ll be tender for a few weeks. So far as I can tell, most of her damage will be emotional.” The doctor takes a small wooden chair and sets it next to the bed, sitting down. Once I’m dressed, she runs her gaze over me and James. “I am so sorry for what you’ve gone through. But perhaps you can fill me in a few things. Like how the hell Michael Realm found me.”

I lag against him James, widening my eyes a few times to wake myself up. “When we were taken from the farmhouse,” James starts, “Realm was in the van I was loaded into. He was dressed as a handler, him and Asa, and they brought me to some sketchy-ass motel near the facility. Asa was off the books on the pickup, so The Program had no idea he was involved. Basically my entire existence at the site was covered up because I went off the grid. Realm saved me.”

There’s an ache in my heart, because I’m not sure what James could tell me that would make me forgive Michael Realm. I honestly don’t.

“I had the business card of a reporter,” he continues, “and Realm and I met with him. We asked for his help, promising to get him the story of his career—but not until Sloane was free.” James shrugs. “Realm offered you up, Evelyn. He said he could get Kellan an interview with you if he helped us.”

The doctor’s good nature slips momentarily as she looks toward the door where Realm is waiting on the other side. Realm told me once that Evelyn cared about him. But if she was hiding from The Program, did he have the right to turn her over? Does he have the right to do any of the things he does?

James goes on. “Kellan had the idea to walk into the facility and cause a stir. He’d tried to get in before and knew security would show up to strong-arm him out. Once that happened, Realm and I were going to slip in. Of course, we didn’t expect Sloane to try to break herself out, but I guess we should have.” He smiles, but James hasn’t recovered, not from the idea of losing me. I can’t remember my last time in The Program, but if it weren’t for James and Realm—I’d be gone. The real Sloane Barstow would be dead, and I don’t know if there is a way to feel whole again. To ever feel safe.

“And the other girl?” Evelyn asks, crossing her arms over her chest. I can’t read her expression, whether she’s all business or truly pissed.

“Dallas is one of us,” James says. “But she’s been violated. I don’t think she’s okay, no matter what she looks like on the outside. Realm thought you might be able to help her, too.”

“Michael Realm seems to think a lot of things,” Evelyn says. “Please, go on.” She’s definitely pissed. I’m happy the Thorazine has begun to fade, or maybe my adrenaline is working it through my system quicker, because I half-expect the doctor to kick us out.

“The plan was to get Sloane and Dallas out and head here,” James says. “Realm’s known your location for a long time—said it’s why he’s been staying in Oregon, to be closer to you. He’d been waiting for the right moment to show up at your door. I guess this was it.”

Evelyn is quiet, and in the silence, I glance around at what must be her bedroom. The light is dim, but it’s quaint. There are pictures on the walls—landscapes of forests in clumpy oil paints, and the sheets of the bed are a deep green. It’s humble here, and it occurs to me that we’ve just shattered what was left of her life. She’s harboring fugitives.

“I knew my time would come,” she says solemnly. “And if I can save a few more kids on my way out, so be it. Once The Program learns of my location, you can expect them to converge on this place. You can’t stay long.”

“But if you talk to Kellan,” James says, leaning toward her, “you can tell him your story. We can take down The Program. Realm thought you’d know how.”

Evelyn smiles briefly, tugging her red sweater closed around her. “Michael always did think too highly of me. Truth is, The Program will eliminate me long before the government can offer me any protection. And I’m too old to run any longer. Too tired. I have a lot of secrets in my head. Ones I’ll never forget.” She tilts her head, looking over James. “I suspect you’re the same?”

In the craziness of escape, I’d forgotten. James has taken The Treatment—he knows everything about us, about himself. Oh my God. What does James know?

“I wasn’t a doctor,” he says. “My secrets are small compared to yours, I’m sure.”

Evelyn leans forward, looking concerned. “Are you well?” she asks quietly. “Were you able to hold off the depression?”

James shifts uncomfortably. “I had help,” he says. “Between Realm and medication, I was able to fight off the worst of it. I stayed focused on Sloane and making sure she was safe. But it wasn’t easy. I think I’m past the worst of it though.”

Evelyn nods. “Not everyone was so lucky,” she says solemnly. “You’ll have to be prepared. The memories will continue; some may be harder to take.”

“I understand the risks. But right now we don’t have time to dwell. You were kind to let us in, but I need to know, Evelyn, can you end The Program?”

The doctor rolls her eyes toward the ceiling, like she’s trying to stop tears from slipping out. “I don’t think Michael’s left me another choice. And I have no delusions about how far The Program will go to keep me quiet.” She sniffles hard and then leans back in her chair, crossing her legs.

“Did you know I never had any children of my own?” she asks. “When the epidemic began, I didn’t have the same investment as some of the other doctors. That’s not to say I wasn’t horrified—I was. But as much as I researched, I couldn’t find the source of the outbreak.

“The closest I got was a small school outside of  Washington, where three girls poisoned themselves at a sleepover. They were among the first, and other than being friends, there were no genetic markers or links. One of the girls—sixteen—had been on antidepressants since she was nine. She’d been diagnosed with a myriad of conditions, and was prescribed medications to help her function at school. In the end, I believe the medication cocktail is what led to her suicidal thoughts. Now, what she said to her friends, how they came to want to die—that’s the real mystery. Because after that day, the outbreak pushed outward.

“News stories, articles, copycats. It all happened so quickly that it no longer became the focus of why teens wanted to kill themselves, just how to stop them. It was a worldwide psychosis. At least, that’s what I believe. There are other scientists with different theories, of course. All seems moot now—now we have The Program,” she says with a flourish of her hands. “And wouldn’t that just save us all.”

I’m absorbing all of Evelyn’s words, putting them together with what I’ve seen and experienced. I can’t say I completely buy into her notions—I won’t downplay the outbreak to a fad. But maybe there are some kernels of truth in there.

“I took a shine to Michael,” she says nostalgically. “He has such a good heart, such a fighter. But he can also be cruel and manipulative—and that was after he’d been stripped of his memories. The Program didn’t save him—it made him worse. I knew then it wasn’t the answer. I began playing with formulas and came up with a way to return the memories. I gave The Treatment to Michael, Kevin, Roger, and Peter.” Her eyelids blink quickly as she fights back the start of tears.

“Peter didn’t make it. Despite everything I did to get him through, he didn’t make it.” Her voice chokes up, and I have to look away. “He would have survived if I hadn’t given him The Treatment. I killed him. I vowed to never take that chance again.

“But . . .,” she says, shrugging sadly. “The Program learned about The Treatment, and my contract was up. I wasn’t about to stick around for a lobotomy, but I did what I could to protect my patients. I destroyed the files, the formula. There are no pills other than the one Realm kept. I don’t suppose he told you who it belonged to?”

“No,” I say. The doctor scoffs softly, ready to continue, and it strikes me whose pill Realm stole. Roger—all this time, Roger was looking for his Treatment, and it was with Realm. He must have figured it out.

“Can you make more?” I ask. I think of Dallas, wondering if her past would help or hurt her.

Evelyn shakes her head slowly. “Oh, I would never do that. Bringing back all those dark thoughts at once? I may as well kill them myself. Arthur Pritchard had that idea, and I told him it was a mistake, The Treatment was a mistake. He didn’t believe me.”

Arthur Pritchard, alone in a gray room. “They lobotomized him,” I say quietly, earning a look from James. “I saw him in the Program.”

Evelyn’s shoulders sag slightly. “Well, I’m sorry to hear that. I truly am. But the fact remains, The Treatment won’t save everybody. It was the testing of a naive scientist, when all along, I should have been preventing The Program from erasing memories in the first place.

“You asked me if I knew how to stop them”—Evelyn levels her gaze on James—“and the answer is no—I don’t know how to make the world believe. But if your reporter can find the studies The Program buried, I believe he’ll have his answers. The Program is the reason the epidemic is spreading. The pressure, the attention—it’s causing a whole new outbreak it hopes to contain by resetting the world. The Program is breeding suicide.”

CHAPTER TEN

IT’S LATE BY THE TIME Evelyn finishes talking, and she tells us we can stay in her room to rest while she checks on Dallas and the others. It feels sort of creepy to be lying in her bed, but at the same time, with James next to me, I just want to sleep for a few hours. We don’t say much, just a few relieved murmurs about being back together. I have so much to ask him, but with all I’ve learned in the past few hours, I don’t think I can contain another thought.

I’m not sure how much time passes when James moves next to me, saying I slept like the dead, and I’m stirred awake. It’s dark, but he clicks on the light, flooding me in unflattering hues. I glance down at the pink T-shirt and gray pants I’m wearing, and take a moment to familiarize myself with where we are.

It comes in a wave, and I’m quickly out of bed, wincing when I put pressure on my side. I check the bruise again, and James sticks out his bottom lip, seeing the colors. He comes to hug me gently. I promise I’m okay—even though it hurts like hell—and kiss his lips before leading us from the room.

We don’t have to go far. I stumble to a stop, putting my arm out to stop James from passing me. Evelyn is at her round kitchen table with a bright light pointed at her. Kellan sits close by with his cameraman, recording their interview. Realm and Asa are standing off to the side, and Realm meets my eyes before looking away. James and I stand and listen as Evelyn Valentine tells the world about The Program. She’s matter-of-fact, and at times maybe even a little cold, but she’s believable.

When they take five to reset the camera, I slip past them in search of Dallas and find her alone in the living room, staring at a blank television screen. Evelyn has gotten her out of the gray scrubs too, and Dallas sits in an oversize Seattle Seahawks T-shirt, more out of place than I’ve ever seen her. She glances over when I sit next to her.

We don’t say anything. Her lip quivers before she smiles widely, flashing the gap in her teeth. I put my arm around her and she leans into me, sniffling back a cry as we both stare at the blank television—we’re bonded but too damaged to talk about what we went through.

“Sloane,” James calls softly. I look over to see him in the doorway, perfect—at least for me. I kiss Dallas on the cheek, making her laugh, and then get up to meet James. Dallas’s laugh isn’t a sound I thought I’d hear again, and it gives me a small sense of home. I take James’s hand and lead him back into the kitchen.

Evelyn is done with her interview, exhausted as she mumbles about making tea. I go to help her, turning the stove knob until the burner catches fire, and I set the kettle on top. There’s a touch on my elbow, startling me, and I turn to see Asa.

“I wanted to say good-bye,” he says in his quiet manner. In regular clothes I think he looks just like anybody else—average and normal. There is nothing sinister about this handler, not when his eyes are so kind.

“Good-bye?” I repeat. “But we’ve hardly had a chance to talk. I know nothing about you.”

Asa smiles, looking around sheepishly. “No offense”—he motions to the cameraman—“but I want to keep it that way. There’s a girl back in San Diego I’d like to go check on. Then I plan to lie low while this shit hits the fan. I truly hope you all make it. I really do.”

“I know.” I lean in and hug him, careful of my injured side. I can’t blame Asa for not wanting to get involved. If anything, it proves how smart he is. My former handler makes his rounds, carefully avoiding the reporter, and slaps hands with James and hugs Realm. And just as quickly as Asa slipped into my life, he’s gone, having played his part in my rescue.

The night is long, and James and I opt out of a filmed interview in exchange for a written statement—mostly because we don’t want our faces out there any more than we have to. Realm refuses to talk at all, and Kellan doesn’t even approach Dallas. He got everything he needed from us and Evelyn. The doctor isn’t kind when he thanks her, ready to leave. I see her anxiety continue to ratchet up, her expectant looks at the door, the wringing of her hands. But she doesn’t ask any of us to go—not yet.

I offer to walk Kellan out, and it’s just the two of us when we get to his car. It’s close to midnight—the stars blotted out behind the canopies of the trees. There are crickets and frogs and so many noises around us, we could never feel alone.

“I’m sorry,” Kellan says. Surprised, I look up to meet his eyes, noting again how they’re not the dark black I saw the first time I met him at the Suicide Club.

“For what?”

“Not coming sooner. James told me how close you came to—”

I swallow hard and look away, stopping his statement. “But you came,” I say, pressing my lips into a smile. “In the end, all that matters is I’m not there now.”

“We have them, you know,” he says earnestly. “I’m going to find the studies, and those combined with Evelyn’s statements, the eyewitness accounts—The Program can never survive this PR mess. I assure you, Sloane. They’ll never take anything from you again.”

I hope Kellan is right, and at this point I believe in him. He chased me around the country, helped save my life—I have to believe he’s a good reporter if he can do all that. The cameraman comes out from Evelyn’s house with his gear, nodding a goodbye to me, and Kellan and I exchange one last hug. I watch as he climbs into his vehicle, ready to finish his big story. Before he pulls away, he rolls down his window.

“Sloane?” he asks. “If The Treatment was still around—if Evelyn made more . . . would you take it?”

I digest his words, rocking back on my feet. The pain of my time in The Program is still so raw, and yet, I think it’s just the tip of the pain I’ve endured in the last few months. What could getting it all back bring me?

“I don’t think so,” I tell him sincerely. “Sometimes, Kellan . . . I think the only real thing is now.”

He smiles at my answer, although his brows pull together like he’s a little confused. I wave to him and he drives away, leaving the rebels behind. Leaving us to each other.

The house is quiet when I go inside. James is curled up on the living room floor, talking quietly with Dallas while she lies on the couch above him. I like the picture—him being sweet to her, protecting her. James is different since he took The Treatment. More thoughtful in a way that proves we belonged together all along.

There’s a clink of a cup and I follow the sound into the kitchen, uneasy when I find Realm at the table all alone. Evelyn’s bedroom door is closed, and Realm glances over his shoulder when I walk in the room. Despite my urge to walk right back out, I take a seat across from him, daring to look him in the eyes.

“I told you once that I wish you hated me,” he says. “Is it too late to take it back?”

I don’t want him to be funny; it only makes it hurt more. I bring my hands into my lap, squeezing them into fists in an attempt to control the emotions threatening to burst through. “Why?” I ask. “If you were a handler in The Program—if you were the one who erased my memories—why pretend to be my friend? Why continue even after I returned?”

Realm swallows, his eyes watering and downcast as my words hit him. “I was doing my job. I fell in love.” He looks up. “I did what I could to keep you. But the simple answer: I’m selfish. I thought I could make you love me back—that without James you would. I thought I could wear you down.”

“I did love you.”

Realm smiles sadly. “Not like that. Never like him.” Realm’s gaze drifts past me to the living room. “He’s not bad, you know. I kinda like him. And I was wrong: I could never love you the way he does. That kid is absolutely nuts about you.”

I laugh, bringing my hands to the table as the anger fades. There’s more between Realm and me, instances I’m sure I can’t remember. I don’t want to. I want to leave us here—make a truce. I say good night, even though his eyes plead for more time.

James grins when he sees me, patting the carpet and telling me he saved me a spot. We plan to leave first thing in the morning. Evelyn is lending us a car so we can hide out somewhere in town, and Realm is taking Dallas to Corvallis, where she says she has a cousin who’d be willing to help her out for a while. We don’t know if Evelyn and Kellan have done enough to free us, but for the first time, we’re close to an ending. And there’s solace in that.

“We have to leave.”

The voice cuts through the room, and I’m on my feet, still blurry with sleep. I find Realm in the doorway, reddish-brown smears on the sleeves of his shirt. I let out a horrified cry, and both Dallas and James jump up, disoriented and confused.

“Oh my God! Are you okay?” My first thought is that Realm is hurt, and I search for a source of his injury. But when I find none, I look past him toward the bedroom. The blood belongs to someone.

Realm is detached, licking the corner of his mouth as if he’s not exactly clear what he’s going to say. “Evelyn killed herself last night. She . . . uh, she didn’t want to go back to The Program. She left a note.” He takes a crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket. He doesn’t even look at it though; he stares through it. “She didn’t want them to ever get their hands on The Treatment. And she didn’t want them to get us. She . . . she said she was protecting her brain from the scientists.”

I stumble backward, and James catches me around the waist and eases me back onto the couch. I want to run in and check on her, but I know Realm would never leave her side if there was hope of reviving her. I see the devastation and guilt in his eyes. Next to me Dallas begins to weep, and James quickly takes her arm.

He sniffles back his own tears. “Realm’s right. We have to go.”

“We should call an ambulance,” I say. “Something!”

“No,” Realm says with a shake of his head. “I’m sorry, but it’s too late. I’ve called Kellan and told him already; he’ll send someone when we’re clear. Now, James, grab the keys hanging by the door; car’s through the garage. I’ll meet you out front.”

“Realm . . .,” I start to say, but he’s already disappeared back into the kitchen. I hear cupboards opening and closing, the sliding of drawers as Realm gathers supplies. Evelyn Valentine is dead. She didn’t have to kill herself; she could have come with us. But ultimately her fear was too great. She was right—The Program has become the epidemic.

The next moments take on a dreamlike quality; Dallas cries, and James pulls her along while he shouts for me to hurry. We load the car and wait for Realm. He walks out the front door, pausing to lock it. He stands there, his back to us, staring at the house. I choke up, thinking Evelyn was probably the closest thing he had to a mother other than his sister. He doesn’t talk to us when he gets inside the car, only sits at the window, staring out, carrying a brown leather case.

I never asked what he took from Evelyn’s house that day. But I imagine Evelyn Valentine was a piece of his past he wasn’t willing to forget.

CHAPTER ELEVEN—SIX MONTHS LATER

I ROLL DOWN MY WINDOW to let the warm air blow through my hair. James switches between radio stations, but all we hear are updates: The Program is dead, doctors and nurses testify in front of Congress about the lobotomies and the drop in suicides. Kellan Thomas is a household name—the rogue reporter who got the scoop of the century. He found the studies, and his interview with Dr. Evelyn Valentine was broadcast on every major news outlet. He never even used the story he collected from me and James.

The epidemic continues, but shortly after The Program received a cease and desist order while under federal investigation, the outbreak calmed—much like Evelyn had thought it would. Suicide hasn’t vanished, not entirely, but every month brings better statistics, and hopes are high.

James’s phone vibrates in the center console, and I look down just as he reaches to click ignore. Michael Realm. After all that’s happened, James and Realm have forged a friendship I try not to get between. I’ve never been able to trust Realm again, and I don’t know if I ever will. But my boyfriend is allowed to be friends with whomever he chooses—even if said friend once had me erased.

“I thought he was out of town,” I say. “Wasn’t he making some bad choices down in Florida?”

James pulls the car over to park in front of a pasture with cows milling about so he can quickly type out a return text. “I hate when you use your disapproving voice,” he tells me. When I don’t laugh, he sets down the phone and tugs me closer, resting his forehead against mine. “Be nice.”

“Shut up,” I mumble.

James smiles and then leans back to watch me. “That’s not very nice. Come on, baby. Life is good.” He runs his fingers between mine over and over as he talks. “We’re good. I don’t want to ruin it with talk of Michael Realm.”

“Says the person who’s now his best friend forever.”

“Not true.” Tingles races up my arm at James’s touch, warming my body. “What I am is grateful,” he says. “He got me out of The Program; he helped me get to you. He was grilled by those investigators and he didn’t once mention our names. We owe him. Not to mention that, without him, you would have ended up lobotomized—”

I pull my hand from his and cross my arms over my chest. “Yeah, I got it,” I say, still uncomfortable talking about my last hours in The Program. Even when I was questioned by authorities, I told them I was too drugged to remember the final details, the escape. I told them to defer to Program records, which I knew had probably been destroyed by then.

James is quiet for a moment, letting my anger pass as it always does. Then he starts in on my new favorite pastime since escaping the control of The Program: recall.

“There was this one night,” he says in that far-off voice he reserves for memories, “where you and Brady were about ready to throw down. I told you both that you were being stubborn, but I was, of course, ignored.” He rolls his eyes, but I’m smiling, the thought of my brother settling over me like a blanket.

“What were we fighting about?” I ask.

“What else? Me. You didn’t want me to stay the night because Lacey was coming over, and you said I was too obnoxious to play nice with others. Brady said Lacey was a lawsuit waiting to happen and that I was the safer bet. It got kind of ugly.”

“Who won?”

James laughs. “Me, of course.”

I lower my arms, grinning at the way the memory plays across my head. I don’t remember any of it, but I love when James tells me the stories. I love that he has them. “And how did you pull that off?” I ask.

He licks his lips, leaning a little closer. “I promised to be sweet. I may have had a little twinkle in my eye when I said it.”

“Hmm,” I say, reaching to take the fabric of his T-shirt in my hand to pull him closer. “I know that look. So, what? I just gave in? That doesn’t sound like me.”

“It wasn’t at all like you,” he whispers, pausing just as his lips brush against mine. “That’s how I knew you loved me. And that’s why I started leaving you notes. I told myself I wanted you to talk me out of it, but really, I just wanted you to talk to me.”

I kiss him; it’s playful and easy—we have time now. There’s no one after us. We’re free.

My phone rings from my back pocket, and James groans, trying to grab it from my hand when I take it out. He’s still kissing me as we both fumble for the phone, and when I finally pull away to check it, I see it’s my mom. “She has impeccable timing,” James says, and then drops back into the driver’s seat with one last mischievous glance in my direction.

I laugh and answer. “Hi, Mom.” James shifts the car into gear, leaving the pasture behind as we continue down the peaceful, winding road toward our destination. “What’s up?”

“Hi, honey,” my mother says, her voice distracted. “I can’t remember what you told me—was it mac ’n’ cheese you wanted me to pick up? That stuff is horrible for you.”

“I know, but I’ve been craving it. I haven’t had it in forever.” Not since I was on the run with the rebels, I think. I’m trying to convince myself I can handle memories of that time, even though my subconscious quickly tries to wipe it away.

“Your dad still wants pork chops, so I’ll make that junk as a side dish. Oh, here it is.” The phone rustles, and I tap my nails on the door.

“Anything else?” I ask, wanting to get back to James.

“No, that’s it,” my mother says happily. “Tell James I said hello. Make sure you’re both home by six.” I agree, and as soon as we hang up, I look sideways at James.

“I wish she’d stop trying so hard,” I say, although not unkindly. When I first returned home after the scandal broke, my parents were overwhelmed with the attention from the press and then the horror of the stories broadcast on the news. It’s taken months of therapy—normal therapy with normal doctors—for me to stop blaming my parents. Then they had to stop blaming themselves. We’re finally in a good place, I guess.

“At least she’s trying,” James says, continuing to stare straight ahead. My parents helped him buy a small stone at the cemetery to keep his father’s remains. Although it alleviated some of his guilt, James is still haunted by the fact that his father died alone. But we all have our crosses. Now James is at my house, staying in Brady’s old room. Soon it’ll be just us, because despite how much my parents kind of annoy me, I told them I’d stay a year. I realize I’ve missed them. I missed who they could be.

The sun glitters in the sky, but James stays quiet, maybe thinking about his dad. I don’t like when he falls silent, bothered by things I can’t remember. Sometimes he cries out in his sleep—an aftereffect of The Treatment—as a tragic memory floods back in. He’ll be quiet for a few days, but eventually we talk it out. It’s not always easy to remember—I can see that now.

“Tell me another story about us,” I whisper.

The corner of James’s mouth twitches and he flicks a glance at me. “Clean or dirty?”

I laugh. “Let’s try a clean one.”

James seems to think for a moment, and then the smile fades to something softer, sadder. “There was this one weekend where we went camping with Lacey and Miller.”

At hearing the names, I feel a sharp twist of grief. But I need to hear their stories. James checks to see if I’m okay with him going on, and I nod to let him know that I am.

“So Miller, he was crazy about Lacey—I mean, the kid thought she walked on water. So you, being the insistent little matchmaker you are, thought camping would be a perfect double date. Which could have been the case if Lacey wasn’t completely allergic to nature. She was miserable, and Miller was like, ‘Oh, you don’t like mosquitos? Me either! Oh, you think beans are gross? Me too!’ It was painful to watch! So finally I pulled the kid aside and gave him some advice.”

“Uh-oh.”

“I told him he needed to play a little harder to get. Only he didn’t quite understand the concept. He spent the rest of the night ignoring her. The next morning Lacey cornered you, crying, asking what she did wrong.”

“How did it all work out?” I ask. I can’t remember Miller, not the way James does. I never really will. But hearing about him, it makes me feel connected to myself. Miller’s like a favorite character in a childhood story.

“Well, you little charmer,” James says, “you went to Miller and told him to stop being an asshole. You had no idea I’d talked to him at the campsite. He went back to Lacey and apologized, she gave him a hard time, and then eventually they met up without us and became blissfully happy.” James smiles. “Miller never ratted me out, either. He let you think he was an idiot. But really it was me.”

“I can’t believe I didn’t guess that. I must have been blinded by your good looks.”

“Who isn’t?”

James pulls up to the empty spot near the grass and parks the car. We sit a minute, both of us feeling so much after the memory. “I wish I could remember,” I say, and look over at James. “But I’m glad you do.”

“I won’t stop until you know every second of our lives,” he says simply. “I won’t leave anything out. Not even the bad stuff.”

I nod. James has made that promise every day since we left Evelyn’s house. Sometimes he repeats stories, but I don’t mind. When we visit Lacey, we tell her some of them, and although she smiles, I’m not sure she really gets it. But she was well enough to finish school, take some college classes. Her therapist even thinks she’ll get feelings back one day. So we don’t give up. We never give up.

“I got you something,” James says, trying to fight back a smile.

“Is it shiny?” Really, I just want to taunt him a little.

“Not really.”

I furrow my brow. “Uh . . . is it flesh-colored?”

He laughs. “No, that’s for later.” He reaches into his pants pocket, but pauses, arresting me again with his gorgeous blue stare. “Do you remember the dream-slash-memory you had the day we were taken from the farmhouse? The one about my seed?”

“Ew, no.” I don’t remember anything about the day we left the farmhouse, not anymore. “I hope to God you’re talking about farming.”

James takes out a plastic bubble, the kind you get from a gumball machine. There’s a flash of something pink and sparkly inside. I bite my lip, giddy with the smile trying to break through.

“That looks shiny,” I say.

“I’m a great liar. Anyway”—he pops the top, taking out a ring—“you knew after that memory we loved each other madly—I think you even said I was sweet. Now I remember how I felt that day. Even then, even with everything going on, I knew I’d never let you get away.”

“Don’t you dare make me cry,” I warn, but I can already feel the burn in my eyes.

James takes my hand and slides the ring onto my finger. “I’ve given you a ring twice before,” he says, “and trust me, both times were way more romantic than this. But I’ll keep giving them to you—same Denny’s, same ring.” His smile fades into a look far too serious for a sunny afternoon. I reach to put my palm on his cheek, leaning in to kiss him.

“I’ve lost you too many times, Sloane,” he murmurs between my lips. His hand slides up my thigh, pulling it over his hip as he lays me back on the seat. His kisses are sweet but also a little sad. I try to change the mood entirely, and James quickly pulls back, laughing.

“Hey, now Miss Handsy,” he says, nodding toward the windshield. “Are we going to do this thing or what? You still have all your clothes on.”

“I think I’d rather stay in here,” I say, grabbing his belt. He playfully swats my hand away and then wraps his arm around my waist, pulling me close.

“Let’s go,” he whispers, kissing me in a way so sweet and tender, I can’t help but trust him. James climbs out of the car, and I take a steadying breath and stare out at the river. This is the first place where James kissed me, both times. I take my towel from the backseat, and with my heart thudding, I open the door.

James is standing at the top of the bank, and when he turns, his eyes are crystal blue in the sunlight. “Come on, chicken,” he says. And I smile.

“I don’t know,” James says, holding my wrist as he draws me farther into the water. “I think the problem is that you still have on far too many clothes.” I roll my eyes, my lips trembling from the ice-cold of the river water.

“You say that every time, and I’m still not convinced that’s the problem. Now shut up and do something impressive before I go to wait in the car,” I say in a shaky voice. As if on a dare he’d love to take, James grins and then dips underwater, coming up to brush back his hair.

“Don’t move,” he says, pointing at me. He begins the swim out to the dock, and I cross my arms over my bikini top as I watch him. His strokes are strong and majestic, and before he even climbs out of the water, I am already duly impressed. I whistle.

James glances over, winks, and then does a backflip into the water. I clap when he surfaces, stopping a moment to admire the new ring he so subtly put on my left hand. James starts swimming in my direction; his mouth occasionally dips below the water.

“That can be you,” he says as he gets closer.

“Baby steps.”

“Toughen up.” When he’s in front of me once again, James wraps his cold arms around me, lifting me half out the water as he kisses me. His lips are slightly cooler than mine, and it takes only a minute before my fingertips dig into the skin of his back, pulling us closer. Making us downright hot.

“Later,” he says between my lips. “I think you’re just trying to distract me.”

I laugh and give him one last peck before he sets me back down into the water. He blows out a dramatic breath, tossing me a look of mock disapproval, and then he reaches out his hand to me.

“Grab on,” he says seriously. I take his hand and let him begin to pull me deeper. “Kick your legs. Scissors, Sloane. Think of them like scissors.”

I do as he says, both of us patient—and soon my fear begins to melt away. My fear of the water. My fear of drowning. My fear of death—of life. It’s in these quiet moments since The Program that I’ve found the reason to go on. It’s not James. It’s not my parents or my friends.

I’ve found me. After all this time, after all that’s been taken and destroyed, I’ve found my way back home. I haven’t gotten any more flashes of my old life. The stress of The Program or running no longer cracks the surface of my psyche. I’ve accepted that, enjoying James’s stories in place of my memories.

And Realm, for as much as I still distrust him, has restarted his life at his old cabin. The last time he saw Dallas, he told her the truth about them—which I had forgotten from the day at the farmhouse. None of us has seen her since, but she does occasionally send me postcards from Florida. All the last one said was Don’t tell Realm.

Roger is in prison—but not for his attack on me or Dallas. Tabitha, one of the embedded handlers from The Program, pressed charges, admitting that when she was first a patient, Roger had assaulted her, too. Turns out, there were a lot of girls willing to step forward. Roger will be serving fifteen to twenty in an Oregon penitentiary and is awaiting charges relating to his role in The Program.

None of the handlers or nurses has been prosecuted yet. Dr. Warren never resurfaced, and Dr. Beckett lawyered up. Nurse Kell didn’t report me for attacking her, although the guilt still eats away at me. I wish I could tell her I’m sorry—but I’ve never had the chance. Maybe one day I will.

I haven’t heard from Cas, but Realm has spoken to him a few times. They’ve both agreed to leave Dallas alone, let her start over. Then again, I never believe anything Realm tells me anymore.

“All right,” James says, his hands supporting my weight as he takes us deeper. “I’m going to let you go, but you’ll be just fine.”

My breathing starts to become erratic, and I’m so terrified I’m not sure I can do it. “James,” I say, about to ready to grab him. He leans forward, his lips near my ear.

“Fight, Sloane,” he whispers.

I swallow hard, measure my breathing, and then give him a quick nod before I start to lap my hands. They’re uneven at first, large splashes of water coming over my face. But then I feel James’s hands leave me, the water rushing past. James is beside me as we both head for the dock. There are a few moments when I think I won’t make it, that I’ll drown here just like Brady did. But I don’t stop.

When I reach the dock, I grab on, laughing wildly. It’s taken me all this time, all this loss, to realize what really matters is now. Not our memories. Now. And right now I’m here in the river where my brother died. With James. Swimming.