The Treatment

EPILOGUE

THE APARTMENT’S TOO BRIGHT WHEN Dallas walks out of her bedroom, blinking against the sunlight. She runs her palm over her short pixie cut, momentarily missing her long dreads. Her roommate left the coffeemaker full before she took off for work, and Dallas murmurs her appreciation as she fills a cup and drinks it black. Dallas’s shift at Trader Joe’s doesn’t start until noon, and she plans to spend the morning doing absolutely nothing. A plus of no longer being on the run.

She glances at her short nails, which she’s been biting obsessively. It’s a side effect—a way to process the trauma without actually freaking out and murdering anyone. She also goes to counseling—real therapy now that The Program is gone—to deal with some of her anger issues. Of course, she doesn’t always tell the truth—not about the parts that still hurt. And she plans to skip today’s session; she has an actual date later tonight, and frankly, that’s more important.

At the thought, Dallas smiles, sipping again from her coffee as she takes out her phone to scroll through her messages. One of the other cashiers—Wade—asked her out last night. He doesn’t know about Dallas’s past, doesn’t even know she’s been through The Program. It’s sort of a taboo now. No one talks about handlers. No one asks about the past. She’s not sure if keeping secrets is healthy—she suspects her shrink wouldn’t think so—but she likes that she’s able to start over here, in Florida.

The few messages on Dallas’s phone are from Wade. He has a dry sort of humor that she enjoys. He’s not like the other guys she’s dated, but maybe that’s why she likes him. He’s safe, kind of boring. Kind of good. Dallas swallows hard and sets her phone down.

Aside from her hair, there are a few other things that Dallas misses. She misses her friendship with Cas—even though it hurts to remember sometimes. Despite his involvement with The Program, she still believes he was her friend. She has to believe it. She even misses Sloane, who, although annoying, turned out to be tougher than she ever imagined. And one of the best friends she’s ever had. She sends Sloane postcards once in a while, just to let her know she’s alive. But she doesn’t want her to show them to anyone. Especially Realm.

At his name, Dallas quickly stands and drains the rest of her coffee, eager to push the thought of Realm far from her head. She goes about cleaning the kitchen and then slips her arms into a robe to go check the mail from yesterday.

The air outside the duplex is humid, and even the early-morning sunshine is bright. When she first moved here, Dallas loved the sunshine. It made her feel alive, healthy. Now she’s used to it, and it’s beginning to lose its charm. She thinks about Oregon some days—visiting Sloane and James. But she never does.

Resting on the wooden slats in front of the mailbox is a small leather case. Dallas takes a quick glance around her quiet street, her heart thumping, before she picks it up. The mailbox lid is lifted by a few oversize flyers, and she crumples them in her hand and heads back inside.

Her paranoia will never really fade. She knows that much. Dallas drops the junk mail into the trash and then sets the case on the kitchen table. Her fingers shake as she reaches inside, and when she pulls out a picture, she stumbles sideways into the chair. It’s her, a picture of her before The Program. Soft blond hair, a hoodie—a normal girl. And next to her is Realm. Smiling.

There are other pictures, and tears fall over Dallas’s cheeks as her entire past unfolds in front of her. She frantically sorts through all the photos, the notes. She has no idea how any of this stuff was saved, but she figures they’re probably not hers at all. They’re Realm’s.

The last thing Dallas finds in the case is a postcard much like the ones she sends to Sloane. It’s from Florida, from her very town, and has a bright-orange sunset streaked across the sky. Dallas’s breath catches in her throat when she looks down at the message scrawled across the white background. It’s not signed, it’s not addressed. It holds only two words, two words that cut through Dallas and make her dissolve into sobs; heavy, aching sobs that both break her down and build her up. The doubt that’s haunted her, the self-hatred, eases slightly, and she knows now she can heal.

Dallas wipes her cheeks and stands. She’s going to get ready for work and pick out her outfit for her date tonight. She’s going to do everything she wants to do. She’s going to accept that good things can happen to her.

Dallas closes the leather case, set to store it away in her closet. She looks at the message one last time, memorizes it, and then leaves the postcard on the table before she walks away.

You matter.