The Program (The Program #1)(14)
Author: Suzanne Young

“Then I sucked at it,” James says. “Because Brady’s dead. And I’m still here.”

I sit up then, turning James’s face to mine. “You’re here for me. I wouldn’t have survived without you, and I couldn’t now. We’re in this together, James. Don’t forget that.”

He exhales heavily and shakes his head, as if trying to clear it. I know that telling him I need him, that I can’t live without him, snaps him out of the depression. It always has.

And when he’s more himself, I kiss him again, before taking his hand and bringing him into the tent to sleep.

• • •

“We should really camp more often,” James says as we’re driving down the freeway. I smile and look sideways at him.

“It was fun.”

“And I think your memory is fully restored now.” He grins.

“Yes, James. It is soundly intact and filled only with images of your naked torso.”

He raises one eyebrow. “Just my torso?”

“Oh my God, shut up.”

“Don’t be shy. I’m an amazing specimen.” James is still grinning ear to ear when my phone vibrates in the pocket of my jeans. I take it out, glancing at the number.

“It’s Miller,” I say, and then click it on. “Hey.”

“Sloane?” Miller sounds like he’s been crying and sickness washes over me. I reach out and grab James’s arm.

“What’s wrong? What happened?” I say into the phone. My heart is racing in my chest.

“They’re coming for me,” he whimpers. “The Program is coming for me.”

No. “Miller, where are you?” I shoot a look at James, and he’s alternating between facing me and facing the road. His speed creeps up past eighty as we race toward town.

“I’m home,” he whispers, sounding desperate. “But it’s too late. I had to see her again.”

“Put it on speaker,” James says, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. I hit the button, and Miller’s sobbing immediately fills the space in the car. I nearly crumble, but I hold up the phone, keeping back my own tears.

In life, I don’t really get to see people cry—not anymore. James does every so often, but it’s rare. And other than that, it’s only when someone has cracked that they’ll let someone see. I never once saw my brother cry, and I was with him when he died.

“Miller,” James calls out. “Don’t do anything stupid, man. We’re on our way.”

“I just can’t . . . ,” Miller mumbles. “I can’t do it anymore. I followed Lacey to the Wellness Center and I tried to kiss her, to remind her. But she slapped me and reported me before I took off. My mom let it slip tonight that The Program is coming. They’re coming right now. But I won’t wait for them. I won’t let them take me.”

“Miller!” James shouts so loud I flinch. “What do you have?” Tears start streaming down James’s cheeks and he presses down on the accelerator, sending us over a hundred miles an hour.

“QuikDeath,” Miller mumbles. “I wish Lacey would have told me and we could have gone together. She wouldn’t have gotten hollowed out. We’d be together.”

“You can’t be together if you’re dead,” James says. He punches his fist hard on the steering wheel, and I’m crying, looking for James to fix this. To stop it. “Miller,” he says. “Don’t do this, man. Please?”

Miller sniffles. “It’s too late,” he says, sounding far away. “I took it ten minutes ago. But I couldn’t leave without saying good-bye.” He pauses. “I love you, guys.” Then the phone goes dead.

I gag, the emotion too strong for me to contain, and James slams on the brakes, guiding us to the shoulder. He grabs the phone from where it fell on the seat, immediately dialing 911.

He’s covering his face, his body racking in sobs. “My friend,” he yells into the phone. “He took QuikDeath. . . .”

I think I pass out then, because I don’t hear anything else.

CHAPTER SEVEN

THE AMBULANCE IS GONE BY THE TIME WE GET TO Miller’s house. There’s no flurry of activity or sirens, so we know it’s too late. We sit for a long time, staring at his white house with its black shutters. James doesn’t hold my hand, and I don’t reach for his. We’re just quiet.

The sun sets behind the house and the living room light switches on. We can see Miller’s mother in the picture window, curled up on the couch. There’s another woman with her, talking and wandering around. James and I have been in houses after a death before, and it’s not a good place to be—not when we’re already so compromised.

“Miller was going to be eighteen in three months,” James says, his voice strangled, but he doesn’t bother to clear his throat. “He wouldn’t have been scared of The Program anymore. He wouldn’t have done this.”

It’s a question we often ask ourselves: Would we commit suicide without The Program, or does it help drive us there?

“I guess it doesn’t matter now,” I say, chills running over me as I continue to stare at Miller’s house. My Miller—my friend. The first day I met him he was playing with the Bunsen burner and my homework caught on fire. Instead of yelling and dropping it, he grabbed my Diet Coke and doused it. Then he looked over and asked if he could buy me another one.

He came camping with us, he cut school with us, he loved us. He was such a good guy and he was such a good friend, and I just can’t . . . I just can’t . . .

“Sloane,” James says, pulling my arm. But I’m rocking, banging my forehead against the window, trying to make the memories, the regret, the pain go away. I want to stop moaning because I don’t even know what I’m saying. But I can’t control myself. I can’t control anything.

And just then James slaps me, hard. I gasp in a breath, snapped out of my hysteria as my cheek stings. Normally James would have talked me down, held me to him. But instead his eyes are swollen and red from crying. His skin is blotchy and wet. I’ve never seen him look like this, and I touch my face, still stunned.

James hitches in labored breaths, his body nearly convulsing with them. I’ve stopped crying, but my head throbs from where I was banging it on the glass. James still says nothing and then looks past me to Miller’s house, just as the porch light clicks off. He whimpers, and I reach for him but he backs against the car door.