I spy a pair of scissors on my dresser, surprised that I didn’t notice them before. I consider fighting my way out. Stabbing the handlers—especially the one who has been after me from the beginning—and pushing past my parents. Refusing to let them take my life from me.
I grab the shears, clutching them in my fist.
There’s a clicking sound and then the door swings open. My mother swallows hard when she sees the scissors in my hand. My father calls to me, sounding terrified.
I back toward the window. My face is hot and my mouth is wet. I think I’m drooling, overwhelmed with rage as I growl at them.
“Miss Barstow,” the dark-haired handler says calmly as he enters. “Put the scissors down.” He shoots a look to the other
handler and they separate, each taking one side of the room to surround me.
“No.” But my voice is like an animal’s. My father starts to cry again and even though I’m angry, I can’t hate him. Brady broke him. He can’t go through it again.
“Miss Barstow,” the handler repeats as he grabs for something at his waist. I suddenly realize he must have a Taser.
And I know it’s over. This life, it’s over. I meet my mother’s eyes and force a bitter smile. “I’ll never forgive you,” I murmur. Then, just because this is my last moment of having a real emotion, I tighten my grip on my scissors. And I slash my wrist.
I fall back against the wall, the pain more immediate than I thought it would be. I close my eyes and feel hands grip me hard on my upper arms. A needle pierces my skin, and within seconds a wave rushes over me, crashing above my head and drowning me in sleep.
• • •
“Hello?”
I hear a voice, but I’m too tired to open my eyes all the way. I try again and fail. The voice laughs softly.
“Is there anybody in there?”
I feel a touch, a pinch in my arm, and then there’s a rush of adrenaline. My eyes fly open and I take in a sudden breath. My arms are tight at my sides, as if tied down.
“Ah, there you are,” the voice says. “Welcome to The Program.”
I SLOWLY LOOK TO MY SIDE, MY VISION A BIT BLURRY
as I wake. Next to me, close, is the dark-haired handler. He smiles. “Worried I’d given you too much Thorazine. You’ve been out for hours.” He reaches to brush my hair away from my face. I jump, turning my head violently away, repulsed.
“Don’t touch me,” I hiss. “Don’t you dare touch me.”
He laughs. “Miss Barstow, I know you’re upset. I know you’re unwell.” He leans close, his voice a whisper in my ear. “But it’s no excuse for bad manners.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, thinking that maybe I should feel frightened, sad. But all I can feel is rage. They changed James. Lacey. They’re going to change me.
“Now,” the handler says, “I’m going to tell the doctor you’re
awake.” He touches my hair again. “I’ll be seeing you around, Sloane.”
My stomach twists when he says my name. I try to turn my body away, but my hands are tied down with leather straps, buckled to the bed. As I move, my wrist hurts, and I remember how I cut myself in my room before they took me.
I clench my jaw tighter, listening to the sound of the handler’s feet shuffling across the floor. When I hear the door close, I open my eyes and look around.
The room is white, just white. The walls are smooth and unmarked, and there is a chair next to my bed. Everything is clean and smells like rubbing alcohol. My heart pounds as I wait. I don’t know what’s going to happen to me. If it’ll hurt when they get inside my head.
I lie back against the pillow, letting the sorrow seep in for a second. My parents betrayed me. I hate them, even though I know I shouldn’t. They thought they were saving me, but instead they’ve condemned me to a half-lived life. I’m losing everything.
A tear tickles my cheek as it runs down, and I curse myself for not holding it in. I turn my head into my pillow to wipe it and then sniffle, staring at the ceiling. It’s quiet—so quiet that the only sound is my breathing. I wonder if the silence alone can drive me mad.
The door opens with a quiet click. I freeze, not sure I want to look.
“Good evening,” a deep voice says. It has the slightest hint
of a British accent and it’s calm. Almost inviting. I squeeze my eyes shut. “I’m Dr. Francis,” he says, and I hear chair wheels squeak as he sits down.
I’m afraid to move, but when his warm hands touch my arm, I flinch. Then I realize he’s undoing my wrist straps. I look suddenly to my side, where his fingers work to release me.
“I am sorry about this,” he says as he unbuckles. “It’s a precaution we have to take for all incoming patients.”
“I don’t want to be a patient,” I reply.
Dr. Francis pauses, his green eyes searching my face as he studies me. His brown hair is clipped short and he’s clean shaven. “Sloane,” he says kindly. “I know you’re scared, but we really only want to help. You don’t see it, but you’re sick. You even attempted suicide.”
“No, I didn’t. I just didn’t want them to take me.” I don’t mention how I tried to drown in the river.
“We’re not going to hurt you.” He stands and walks around the bed, pausing at my other strap to undo it. “We’re going to remove the sickness, Sloane. That’s it.”
“I’ve seen the returners,” I tell him, narrowing my eyes. “I see exactly what you take.”
When my hands are free, I sit up and rub my wrists, amazed at how much less vulnerable I feel now. But I’m in hospital scrubs, and I shiver, thinking that the dark-haired handler might have undressed me.
Dr. Francis pulls his eyebrows together with concern. “Everyone who comes into The Program is very unwell.”
“That’s not the point,” I say. “We should have a choice.”
“But how can a proper decision be made when the mind is clouded with disease? It’s an infection, Sloane. A behavioral contagion. And we’re the only cure.” He pauses as if just realizing how cold he sounds. “I apologize,” he says. “You should get settled first. I’ll have the nurse come in to check on you.” He nods to me before leaving the room.
I’m still shaking from the shot the handler gave me, but I can’t help wonder if the doctor is right. Maybe I’m sick and don’t realize it. I lie back in the bed, looking at the gauze wrapped around my wrist and remembering how desperate I felt.
But I can also remember the look on the handler’s face when he came to get me—his predatory stare. He’d been waiting for that moment, waiting to get me here.
No. The Program isn’t the cure. It’s the end of me.
• • •
“And this is the leisure room,” the nurse says, motioning ahead. She’s grandmotherly, even wearing a knit sweater over her scrubs. But I think it’s purposeful, that she’s here to trick me somehow. I wrap my arms tighter around myself, my head still fuzzy, and shuffle behind her into the large room.
I’m dressed in lemon-yellow hospital scrubs with a matching robe, sunny slipper socks on my feet. I’d prefer something more depressing—maybe black, but I suppose that’s why they picked yellow.
The leisure room doesn’t look the least bit relaxing. Unlike the Wellness Center, this space has no color. It’s stark white
and bland, like a black-and-white movie with splashes of yellow. There are about twenty people in here. The Program takes patients between the ages of thirteen and seventeen, but most appear to be on the older side. There’s no ping-pong table or chessboard. Instead there’s a TV on one side with a couch in front of it. A few tables and chairs are poised near the windows—which I’m sure are sealed—looking over a lawn. There are a couple of computers with signs that read
NO INTERNET ACCESS.
The only thing that looks even slightly appealing is the game of cards going on at a table in the corner,
Three guys are sitting there, one chomping on a pretzel stick like it’s a cigar. The way they interact—as if they’re friends—floods me with a sudden longing for James and Brady. We used to play cards like that.
“Which facility is this?” I ask, feeling sick. There are three buildings that The Program uses. I wonder if this is the same one James was sent to.
“Springfield,” she says. “Roseburg and Tigard are nearing full capacity. We can only handle forty patients at a time, so we’re a tightly knit group here.” She smiles and touches my shoulder. “We have about an hour before dinner. Why don’t you try to make some friends?” she asks. “It’s good for your recovery.”
I throw her such a hateful glance that she backs up.
Friends?
They are about to erase my friends. With a nod, the nurse leaves me there, her grandmotherly facade falling away as she goes about her other duties.
I think then that maybe everything here is fake. They offer us a false sense of calm, but there is no such thing. This is The Program. I know how dangerous that is.
The guy across the room with the pretzel cigar laughs loudly, tossing down his cards. I’m so stunned to hear the laughter that I just stare, wondering how someone could laugh in a god-awful place like this.
Just then he glances over and notices me, his smile faltering a little. He tips his head in acknowledgment. I turn away.
I walk to the window and sit in the chair there, pulling my knees up to wrap my arms around them. How many people tried to jump out of these windows before they decided to seal them?
I’ve never been a fan of heights. Back when we were kids, my parents took us to an amusement park, and Brady convinced me to go on the Ferris wheel with him. I was probably eight or nine, and when we got to the very top, the cart stopped, frozen there. At first Brady joked around, rocking the cart back and forth. But he cut it out when I started crying.
“You must be afraid of heights, Sloane,” he said, putting his arm protectively around me. “I’m sorry.” He paused then, looking out over the park. “It’s not good to have fears like this. It only makes it more likely that you’ll die that way—a self-fulfilling prophecy.”
I wiped at my face. “What?”
“I read it in a book once. So if you keep being afraid of heights, you’ll probably die falling from something.”
I grip the bar tightly, my breath starting to quicken. Brady chuckled.
“I don’t mean today. I mean eventually. It’s like the river, Sloane. You’re afraid of swimming—so chances are, if you ever fall in, you’ll probably drown. Your mind will make it happen.”
I pause now, looking out on the lawn of The Program facility. I didn’t drown in the river, even when I tried. But my brother did. Was it my fault because he knew I feared it?
“You look like somebody kicked your dog.”
The voice startles me, and I look up to see the guy from the card table standing there. “What?” I ask, putting my feet on the floor.
“Yeah, you’re right,” he says. “They probably just erased its memory. Good point.” He smiles. His dyed black hair is shaggy and long, sticking out in random directions, but not in an entirely bad way. The shadows are heavy under his eyes. On his neck, just below his jawline, is a jagged scar. I swallow hard and meet his dark eyes.
“Not really in the mood to joke around,” I say. “Maybe another time.” I turn toward the window, hoping he’ll go away so I can retreat back into my memories. So that I can think of James.
“Okaaaaay,” the guy says, taking a step back. “See you around then, sweetness.” He shakes his head as he leaves, possibly surprised that I didn’t want to chat. But I’m not going to do that here. I’m not interested in making friends. I’m interested in getting out.
IT’S EARLY WHEN THE NURSE COMES IN THE NEXT
morning, the warm smile back on her face. I slept heavily, which I have no doubt is due to the medication they gave me before bed. “Time for you to meet your therapist, Dr. Warren,” she says, taking my arm to help me out of bed. I feel groggy and sway on my feet for a second. “You’ll really like her,” she adds. “Fantastic doctor.”
After a quick trip to the bathroom, I return, and the nurse gathers my hair into a ponytail. I don’t stop her because it feels like sandbags are attached to my arms. She slides on my slipper socks and wraps my robe around me. “Okay, honey,” she says. “Let’s go. We don’t want to be late.”
I blink slowly and walk beside her as she leads me into the hallway. It’s empty except for the dark-haired handler leaning
against the wall, his arms crossed over his broad chest. He tilts his head down as I pass. “Good morning, Miss Barstow.”
I don’t respond, and instead tighten my grip on the nurse’s arm. The handler is always there, always lurking. I’m afraid I’ll never get away from him again.
“What time is it?” I ask the nurse, my voice raspy and thick with sleep.
“You have the first appointment of the day. Six a.m.,” she responds.
I think that six in the morning is way too early to expect people to bare their soul, but maybe it’s also a time when I’m more vulnerable. I clench my jaw, trying to fight back the fear as we pause in front of a wooden door. I don’t know what’s behind it. I don’t know what they’re going to do to me.
The nurse opens the door, and I hold my breath, waiting. She ushers me into a small office, clean and white. There’s a comfortable-looking chair poised in front of a large wooden desk. The woman behind the desk rises and smiles at me.
“Good morning, Sloane,” she says. Her voice is deep, authoritative and protective at the same time.
“Morning,” I mumble, taken aback by how normal the room is. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but it definitely involved a much scarier scenario—electric-shock machines maybe.
“Thank you, Nurse Kell,” Dr. Warren says to the nurse and then offers me a seat. As I collapse in the oversize maroon chair, I spy a glass of water on the good doctor’s desk. Next to it is a bright-red pill. Doubt it’s for her.
My eyes drift up to hers, and she presses her lips into a sympathetic smile. “You’re angry,” she says.
“You think?”
“Why?”
The question seems so absurd that I don’t know how to answer at first. I stare at her. She’s wearing thin, wired glasses, her dark wavy hair falls perfectly to her shoulders. Even her makeup looks flawless, as if she’s not real at all. Just an actress on a set.